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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357949">Piano Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JointExisting/pseuds/JointExisting'>JointExisting</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Dark Stephen Strange, Dark Tony Stark, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Hurt Stephen Strange, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Protective Tony Stark, Relationship Discussions, Stephen Strange is Sherlock Holmes, Tony Stark Has A Heart, very minor mention though</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:35:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>34,355</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357949</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JointExisting/pseuds/JointExisting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark grew up playing the piano, as did Stephen Strange.</p><p>By passing interest and casual fancy, it connects them unhindered by the fresh pressures of their disjointed lives: Songs, notes, and stolen brushes of their hands across the keys.</p><p>Or: Tony and Stephen fall slowly and yet suddenly into love.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tony Stark/Stephen Strange</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Seven Hundred</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>//should be working on other stuff but oh well have some IronStrange//</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6></h6><p>Tony Stark rested his fingers over the piano keys and stared at his music, reading. Idly, he drummed an ivory to himself and listened to the pure sound emitting deep from within the instrument in front of him. He didn’t much care for how singular it sounded through his parents’ house or the resounding echo bouncing around him through the otherwise bare practice space. His eyes flit away from the piece he’d taken to practicing lately – something modern, something he heard and couldn’t quite put away, something he’d uncovered the sheet music for at the store after hearing it on the radio. He’d then proceeded to write his own version closer to the original; he made it more complicated, more difficult, extra taxing on him but, in the process, that much more beautiful and true to what it should be.</p><p>Not that his teacher thought so. Mr. Zion wanted Tony to practice classical pieces; pieces which would entice music halls into silence and enrapture great change in peoples’ hearts. Tony wanted to inspire those feelings, too, just... He wanted to use Queen, AC/DC and Pink Floyd to do it instead of Mozart, Chopin and – <em>ugh</em> – Benjamin Britten.</p><p>Tony dropped his fingers on to the keys, wrists down, and then drew a hand up to whip through his hair. He raised his eyes to the widow across from him where summer was slowly dispersing and would sooner leave than linger and he’d be on his way to MIT. Mr. Zion would soon be regulated to being his at-home teacher, and Mrs. Courtney would become his at-school teacher during his stay there. He’d met her; she was nice.</p><p>He expected she’d be worse than Mr. Zion.</p><p>Speaking of—</p><p>“Anthony!” The piano teacher, weighed down by a hideous amount loose music sheets in his satchel, appeared in the doorway with his tweed and his very round glasses. “What is this? Staring? At the outside? My boy – my boy! Eyes on the sheets, ears in the music! Do your scales, and then shall we begin practicing our Mozart piece?”</p>
<h6></h6><p>Stephen Strange was one of those ‘naturally gifted’ children. He excelled at nearly everything he tried – especially music—identifying, memorising and learning. It always felt new, always exciting. He won a handful of awards for piano and violin – the only instruments he ended up staying with long-term because he loved the handling of them; the way he had to position his fingers just so and the agile movements across the strings and the keys. Eventually, much to his parents’ disappointment, he gave up the violin (he still composed and practiced from time to time, enjoying the easy, natural feeling of it and grip against his sharp chin) in High School but continued with the piano well into Med School.</p><p>Despite his workload, Stephen found himself in backend bars and sultry clubs most evenings sitting at the badly-tuned pianos no one had played properly for years, allowing his fingers to glide through whatever took his fancy from classical to modern to his own compositions. A lot of the time no one cared. Some made remarks and some asked him questions and some made small but quite pleasant donations he accepted with reasonable charm despite it always doing to interrupt his playing for the evening. Once someone paid him, they felt they could request—and everyone always requested <em>Piano Man</em> at least once.</p><p>Stephen didn’t mind playing it.</p>
<h6></h6><p>The first time Stephen and Tony met was not a pleasant affair.</p><p>Stephen, newly graduated and already working to change the face of medicine in the field of neurology, had been invited to a small event on account of knowing the man in charge of the guest list. He hadn’t expected much more than just to turn up, still a slip of a man with curls, and look ably pretty through the night to entice a few rabid tycoons to invest in him and his department. If he had to sleep with someone, he just hoped they were proper about their hygiene and didn’t want to kiss.</p><p>Because Stephen did not kiss. Not anymore.</p><p>That un-carefully thought-out plan changed when he saw the piano. It sat to one side, in a corner with New York’s landscape spread out behind it in a panoramic window view, a slick black model with the cleanest keys he’d seen lately (most of the ones in the bars, where he was devoting most of his practice time, had yellowed terribly) and Stephen immediately left whatever conversation he’d been in to investigate the smooth instrument. The host approached almost too quickly then, having delayed interacting with Stephen all evening, and asked if he wanted to play.</p><p>Apparently, the pianist meant to be coming in had cancelled at the last minute, and the host was in a bit of a bind because of it. Stephen laughed a little, and then composed himself enough to state with integrity, “I’m a professional in my spare time. I charge seven hundred dollars an hour for an event like this.” The man didn’t reply immediately, and Stephen couldn’t work out if he’d taken it as the joke it was meant to be or was merely impressed by Stephen’s quick-witted response. The neurosurgeon quickly continued with, “I just wanted to see the model, actually, I-”</p><p>“Seven hundred an hour? That’s it? I was paying the other guy twenty grand for the night.” The man whistled. “Great. I’ll get my assistant over here to take your bank details, then. Do you have music for three hours? There’s some in the seat the guy requested... You know, I feel shit for only paying you that; I’ll throw five thousand your way, all right? Rounding it up makes it easier for everyone.” With that said, and the man immediately on the lookout for his PA, he promptly left Stephen to get ready.</p><p>Stephen... hadn’t expected that to happen. Although maybe he should have: people like tonight’s host (Osdawn? Ozwald? Os... Os-something) did tend to have more money than sense. Stephen wasn’t too hard up, really, having already secured a very nice grant recently and his parents having left him their moderate wealth which allowed him to purchase a rather upmarket apartment in New York, but five thousand dollars? To play the piano for a couple dozen people who wouldn’t care anyway? He wasn’t about to say no to that.</p><p>Stephen settled in for a night of playing. He paused momentarily to give his details to the blonde bombshell with the red lipstick and the clipboard, and then promptly returned to running his fingers across the ivories. Every so often he paused for a drink of something and to glance around the room; so far, he’d only had about three people take any notice in him. Feeling brave, he’d decided to go for a Queen classic just to alleviate the elevator medleys he’d been tinkering with as his brain ran through other various things far more important than this event—like his work schedule for the next two weeks.</p><p>He was maybe an hour into his set when he finally realised he’d had an audience for the last few songs and turned his head to them, looking the short, stylised man up and down with a gradual sweep of his dark eyes. “Any requests, sir?” Stephen asked politely, as he shuffled the various sheets of music he’d found in the seat.</p><p>“Uh, yes,” said the man, accent rich and skin just slightly tanned—probably from the sun in California, or somewhere in that direction if Stephen made a deduction. “I have one request.”</p><p>Stephen gestured, without looking at him, to continue.</p><p>“Yeah, see, my request’s a bit weird,” said the man, and Stephen took another sweep of him, trying to read his trained expression. He definitely knew him from somewhere, which was saying something as Stephen didn’t often engage in celebrity. A moment later his question was answered when roughened fingers reached up to remove the concealing sunglasses and the man’s frown shrugged into a smile. “Could you remember to count your beats? Killer Queen sounds shit when you forget to hold those notes long enough.”</p><p>Blinking through his realisation, Stephen said, “You’re Tony Stark.”</p><p>“And you’re Stephen Strange,” Tony replied effortlessly, collapsing his sunglasses to hang them from his pocket. “We all have our quirks.”</p><p>“Doctor Stephen Strange,” Stephen corrected, watching as Tony leant forwards to drum a long ‘G’ note for a count of five before lifting his finger. “We have quirks,” Stephen agreed, before downing his eyes to the left. “A name isn’t one of them.”</p><p>“Oh, really?” Tony hummed. “Sometimes all I think I really have is my name, dear.” He chuckled, the sound ringing true with an obtuse bite to the lastly-said endearment. Tony walked his finger down to ‘F’, and then back to ‘G’ before finally leaning right over Stephen to chime out the middle ‘C’. “You sound good,” the billionaire praised quietly, breathing into the cusp of Stephen’s ear. “I heard you charge seven hundred bucks an hour for an event like this—what’s the price for a private performance?” Tony pressed a quick, almost thoughtless kiss to Stephen’s jaw.</p><p>Stephen slammed his fingers onto the ivories and lurched away from the older man, inhaling sharply as his head calculated with quick regard for his situation their age difference – <em>12 years</em> – their social difference – <em>billionaire vs. newly-graduated doctor</em> – and, from the subtle scent of something on Tony’s tongue, their sobriety—and, in a shocking twist, <em>neither of them were drunk</em>. That wasn’t alcohol, that was – orange juice. He flicked his eyes up and across the room, but only a few people had chanced a glance in their direction. The movies vastly overstated how many people cared about the pianist in the corner, even if the music suddenly stopped.</p><p>In any way Stephen tried to look at this, he came back to the same conclusion: Tony’s more than obvious advances had to be genuine—which meant, by Stephen’s usually very good deductions of people, the billionaire – genius – playboy – philanthropist was interested in him.</p><p>What a joke.</p><p>Stephen pulled his lips into a sedated snarl and pressed his chin against his neck. “I don’t do private performances—gets in the way of work, because someone throws money on the table and thinks I’ll play for them whenever they want me there.”</p><p>“Ooh, speaking from experience?” Tony cooed, though the teasing had gone from his voice and been replaced by a selective undertone – unhappiness, almost. His eyebrows, having been neutral this entire time, furrowed in displeasure.</p><p>Blinking away the dribbling of tears threatening to spill out, Stephen closed his eyes and gave a terse nod. “I am, actually.”</p><p>“You know, I’ve made some bad people disappear,” Tony said quickly, as he rubbed along the side of his glasses with one hand. The other swept over the piano, playing the national anthem idly and without commitment.</p><p>“I’m sure you have, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>“Tony, please, Stephen.”</p><p>“Dr. Strange to you, then,” Stephen responded coldly, knocking Tony’s hand away from the keys. A second later it was back, holding out a business card. “Stark-”</p><p>“Take it. It’s got my <em>private</em> number on the back, in case those people bother you again.” Tony shoved his sunglasses back over his eyes and worked up his media smile, rolling his wrists.</p><p>Stephen turned the stock card over, stared at the quickly-written ‘<em>Tony</em>’ with a dash and number. Just as the billionaire turned away to continue mingling, Stephen called out a faint, “Why?”</p><p>Tony paused, turning his head. “I like having a variety of acquaintances, and I’m short a neurosurgeon who plays piano in the backs of clubs and bars for practice.” With his back to Stephen, the doctor observed the shorter man correcting the front of his suit. “And I like those acquaintances to live in a certain level of comfort, so think it over, Doctor Who.” He waved and then disappeared back into the crowd.</p><p>Stephen played his last few hours, and then left without saying goodbye.</p>
<h6></h6><p>It took two weeks for Stephen to find out Tony Stark was a man of his word, not that he’d had reason to doubt that – quite the opposite, actually: Stephen believed him wholeheartedly. In the circles he’d started coming in, you heard things—and the name <em>Stark</em> was quite a conversational opener in regards to the disposal of people with bad intentions.</p><p>On a particularly terrible night, when the demons were dancing around the doctor’s head and his fingers ached from playing four hours of practice at the dingiest club in New York with a functioning piano, he dug the business card out of his suit pocket and dialled it. Idly, as he waited for it to connect (he had to go through a ‘monitored’ phone line) Stephen checked his prized watch – a graduation present from himself to himself – for the time.</p><p>He’d always wanted a good watch. Now, he was assembling a nice collection. It currently sat at three, and he was holding off on buying anymore for a while as he saved for a good piano—a proper one; one he could play and not feel like he was in the backroom of a mom on the block offering lessons for ten dollars while flogging poppers on the side.</p><p>It was nearing two AM in California, by his calculation, and Stephen ran through several scenarios as he listened to the phone dial. It was possible Tony was asleep (he should be, if Stephen played doctor for a moment), or at one of his now-infamous parties, or maybe in bed with someone, or maybe working, or—</p><p>“<em>Stephen? Hello?</em>”</p><p>“Mr. Stark,” Stephen rushed out, blinking back into the present from his variables list. He held the phone to his ear and said, “Is this a bad time?”</p><p>“<em>Absolutely not. I’ve been wondering for a while now whether you’re the type to call early or late—or at all.</em>” Tony attached a humourless chuckle to the end of his sentence, drawing it through an unbidden yawn. “<em>Now, can I assume you’re calling to give me a list of names?</em>”</p><p>Stephen swallowed. “You can, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>A gentle laugh filtered from the other side of the telephone: “<em>Please</em> Doctor Strange, <em>we’re in business now. Call me</em> Tony.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Rich Graves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"There are times," said the man. "When two people cannot see one another. I do not mean literally."</p>
</blockquote>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stephen placed his strong fingers over the keys but paused to raise his eyes to the room. The hustle and bustle of the reception was in dire disregard of him, and it made a briefly-considered smile come over his pale, thin face as he watched from the edge of his vision the hordes of people conversing and slowly drinking themselves into early, rich graves. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only doctor in attendance though and, apparently, they were in nutrition with a specialty in addiction so he let his duties tonight slide and enjoyed a glass of red before taking his favourite seat in the house.</p><p>It had been a few months since he’d seen Tony Stark last and at least a year since their <em>formal introduction</em> at a soiree in Boston—and a year and a half since their first real, but informal meeting at Mr. Osborn’s (he’d finally learnt who that host was, fortunately) party. Of course, they had had correspondence during the absence, and there had been that particular exchange at a party in the Upper East Side when Tony had been anxious to tell him his list of three names had been, in no nicer way said, dealt with after a tense setup with the right people. Stephen received news of two of their deaths a few days later – a shared boating accident, oh dear – and then some time later the last, ‘unfortunately’, fell off the Golden Gate Bridge while holidaying with his mistress. Such a shame. Such wonderful men. Such nice—</p><p>God. He was so happy they were dead. Stephen hadn’t felt so free since he was a child, back when it seemed the world was fascinated with him and he with it. Now, once more, he could walk the streets and breathe without worrying about the chiming of phones, the approach of black Jaguar cars and the more than casual intent of those wanting to cause him harm.</p><p>He didn’t have to worry about accepting invites to fancy balls, checking guest lists at parties, or playing the piano in public anymore. He just could.</p><p>Of course, some cars did still approach him. Usually they were red or orange, though, and they weren’t Jags but Audis – R8s and such, an A3 now and again. The window would slowly roll down and then Tony Stark or his bodyguard would beckon him into the passenger seat or the back respectively, and Stephen would chance a glance at his surroundings before allowing himself to slip into the car so long as he didn’t have to be at the hospital.</p><p>Stephen thought back on that first private performance he gave Tony as he drummed his fingers across the keys.</p><p>+<em>Just over a year ago</em>.</p><p>Although in the beginning Stephen thought Tony’s actions were hasty, sharp and had an ulterior motive, the billionaire had proven to want just as he’d said: a private performance of Stephen’s talents behind the piano. He’d expected the worst when the plane ticket arrived in the mail and he’d jetted down to California to be picked up by the slick red Audi driven by Happy Hogan. Through the drive to Malibu Point, the former wrestler had done all he could to reassure Stephen, had said Tony was a good man who cared greatly for what looked and felt like wealth. Stephen agreed inwardly at the sentiment, as he’d started becoming accompanied to the lifestyle since his first major neurological breakthrough landed him a cheque with five zero’s on it.</p><p>But, Stephen? Wealth? Was that how Tony saw him?</p><p>When he’d gotten to the Malibu address and sauntered in after correcting his loose jacket, Stephen had expected the lush expanse of affluence he’d been promised by anyone who cared to talk—but instead he’d been greeted by the gently-voiced AI and shown into a living room overlooking the ocean. A young woman was there, debauched, and being escorted to the door by another woman of all business just as he walked in. She’d paused, given him a professional sweep with her light-tone eyes, and then told him to get comfy on the couch, that Tony was showering and she’d fetch him after she took the trash out.</p><p>This woman, Stephen soon realised, was Pepper Potts – famously the longest-serving assistant Stark had had who hadn’t blabbed anything unsavoury to the press. What an honour. He took a seat on the couch, placed his bag between his feet, and waited. JARVIS – the AI – asked after his health and, though it took a few moments to summon his will, Stephen replied he was well and then allowed himself to be screened for ‘security purposes’.</p><p>It wasn’t much later when Pepper returned, prim and proper, and offered him a drink and some lunch. Stephen declined and then Pepper struck up idle conversation, “Usually they don’t stay this long,” she remarked on the woman she’d escorted out minutes prior. “I’m sorry you had to see it. Tony went out last night and brought her back early this morning—it’s not season; he’s just been nervous lately.” Her eyes slanted in careful thought as she looked Stephen’s wiriness over. “Are you staying long? Tony only mentioned you were coming last minute.”</p><p>“I’m just here to play the piano,” Stephen replied simply, spreading an arm, and Pepper’s face lightened up considerably at the mention of the instrument. Immediately she gestured him up from the couch and into another room where- where the damn thing was.</p><p>It was beautiful.</p><p>Absolutely marvellous.</p><p>Stephen came to a stop and just stared for a time at the white piano dazzled by the sun and the touch of light bouncing from the ocean. He yearned to touch the soft-looking white ivories (he couldn’t discern from this far away if they were synthetic or not; what a thrill) at once. His feet carried him across and up the steps, on to the platform where the piano sat in deliberate wait. He briefly set his hand on the Blüthner, dragging it away as he rounded the instrument to stare at the haphazard sheets of loose music set on the stool. Stephen’s fingers itched. He finally relented to pick through the music – some of it classical, some of it modern, a lot of it with scribbled notes Stephen had little understanding of in what looked like a made-up language consisting of shapes.</p><p>“Ah. You’re here.” Tony appeared suddenly, his fingers working through damp hair he was still towelling dry. “Hey, Pep – you staying for this?”</p><p>Pepper looked away from Stephen’s childlike glory of being at the piano to look at Tony. She shook her head slowly, picking a piece of lint off of his shirt. “There’s going to be bickering. I’d rather not—besides, I have some of your accounts to run anyway. Have a good day Mr. Stark. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Strange.”</p><p>“Dr. Strange,” Stephen corrected without looking away from the music, reading between the lines of the gentle cascades and steep rises of the music, trying to hum the melody beneath his breath. He only realised Tony was beside him when the shorter man raised a hand to curl around his wrist and Stephen immediately pulled away from the rough touch, his eyes widening.</p><p>“Hey, hey – cool it, Doctor Who. D’ya want a coffee before you start? I got decaf.” Tony set a hand on his Blüthner, giving it a gentle petting.</p><p>“Thank you, but no,” Stephen replied, still in awe of the beautiful instrument he was about to play. He took a seat, still looking through the music as he contemplated the mismatch of an order it was in. He was about to ask whether Tony minded if he rearranged it, when he suddenly realised the billionaire was looming over him. “Yes?” Stephen asked, his fingers fidgeting to get in a quick practice before Tony’s guests arrived. Despite Tony reassuring him over phone it was a private performance, Stephen suspected he meant within the context of his home; he was bound to be receiving guests soon, especially as he’d washed up and was looking – Stephen flicked his eyes down Tony’s clean appearance – relatively presentable.</p><p>He definitely wasn’t paying Stephen his normal day’s wage and then some just for his own listening, surely? The thought had occurred to him fleetingly, but to entertain guests with a neurosurgeon who doubled as a semi-professional pianist sounded more up Mr. Tony Stark’s alley.</p><p>(But even Stephen Strange could be wrong—even though he had a perfect record in surgery.)</p><p>“I’m waiting,” Tony said, reaching down to take the pile of musical sheets from Stephen and place them carefully on the piano’s downed lid. “I’m guessing you need to warm up anyway, but I always feel that’s where a real pianist shows how good they really are.”</p><p>“Wait—wait, so, this really is just a private performance for... you?” Stephen asked, turning his head up. He furrowed his brow when Tony started nodding, hands clasped behind his back and with an expectant look in his eye. Stephen opened his mouth to babble, when he paused and restructured his question a little differently; ever since he’d walked into the room and seen the instrument, he’d had just one thought on his mind: “Why do you even have a Blüthner? I mean, this isn’t just for show, surely? The music...”</p><p>Tony set a hand on the piano. “It might not be remarked on much, but I’m actually a trained musician you know – a dancer, too,” Tony said with shrugged-off regard. “My mother wanted me to play – because she did – and Howard wanted me to go into – well – everything the Stark name was meant to be.” Tony played a tune without thinking about it, gentle and soothing and something personal if the look of solitude across his eyes was anything for Stephen to go off of. “I trained... three hours a day? And one hour dance, usually—the rest was spent doing everything else: schoolwork, business, etiquette training...”</p><p>Stephen raised his eyebrows, brushing his fingers over the keys. “Astounding. My parents spent most of their money on my musical pursuits with the violin; we had a beaten up Hoffman piano otherwise, which I practiced about two hours a day on.” He played a note. “I liked the sound.”</p><p>Whistling, Tony replied, “Bet your parents weren’t happy when you decided to drop the violin, then?”</p><p>“Not really, no,” Stephen replied with an earnest chuckle, finding his confidence enough as he started drumming out his chords and scales. He listened to the notes with intense glory in their sound, dragging his fingers down the piano to feel the keys beneath the soft pads of his agile fingers. “They were happy I got into Med School, though.”</p><p>Tony laughed – a real, proper laugh. “Howard was happy to get rid of me at MIT,” he remarked offhandedly, watching the neurosurgeon work across the ivories—a second later, the billionaire reached out and carefully picked Stephen’s hands off of the G major scale. “Keep that bridge,” said Tony, smoothing the tips of Stephen’s fingers back on to the keys; the roughness of his worked fingers pressing over the smoothness of Stephen’s as he adjusted them one by one. “There you go. Sorry. Carry on.”</p><p>This went on. As Stephen discovered, Tony did not so much as want to <em>hear</em> Stephen play as want to <em>watch</em> Stephen play. He didn’t cut in when the surgeon started going through the music sheets, and was gentle in his critique afterwards. “You’re a natural,” Tony said at one point, a great sigh in his rich accent as he stood back, fingers tracing his lips, eyes dark and staring. “A few things you could work on – just to make everything easier, really – but... Wow. You are good—so long as you remember to hold those damn notes long enough.”</p><p>Stephen laughed. He really laughed. Spending the day playing the piano with Tony was soul-assuring and made their conversation flow with un-practiced ease well into the later hours. Finally, when Tony declared they should have dinner, Stephen learnt Tony actually wanted him to play several upcoming events—of which he’d be paid generously, of course. “I’m not saying I want to steal you from your work,” Tony said over dinner, Pepper sitting to his left and Stephen at his right. He’d barely looked to his left all evening. “But... I want to steal you from your work.”</p><p>The doctor watched Tony’s lip quirk into a smirk, one eyebrow raised with fantastical implications of the wealth behind the offer. “I would play them myself,” Tony relented shortly afterwards, when Stephen said he’d think about it. “But Pep here says I have to entertain as the host—and Stane agrees, not that I take his word for much.”</p><p>Pepper <em>tsk</em>’d. “You should listen to us more, Tony.”</p><p>“I listen! I listen!” Tony replied, downing the last of the expensive wine he’d uncorked earlier. “You tell me I can’t play, so I go out and find someone who can.”</p><p>“You find a doctor with far more pressing concerns than feeding into your ego,” Pepper replied immediately, and from the blush creeping over Tony’s face – which was probably part-alcohol related – Stephen guessed this wasn’t a new point in the conversation. They’d spoken about this – about him – before.</p><p>The thought sent a thrill of something down Stephen’s spine and into the pit of his stomach. He raised a hand to massage the tension sitting in his neck and breathed out through his nose to settle the nerves fluttering through his chest.</p><p>It was a mistake, at that moment, to look at Tony. His eyes were neither dark nor light, but an in-between; a dangerous whirlpool waiting for their chance to drown an unsuspecting, but suddenly very willing victim. Stephen swallowed around the lump in his throat and finished the last scraps of his meal. He didn’t miss Tony licking his fork clean in a rather unsavoury manner, but every thought in his brain was currently on a loop: <em>Do not fall for this. Do not fall for this. Do not fall for this</em>.</p><p><em>Do not fall for him</em>.</p><p>+<em>Present</em></p><p>Stephen blinked out of his trance and, finally, spotted Tony Stark across the floor.</p><p>He looked the same as ever: a woman on each arm, impeccable dress and smooth hair, his media smile. It was fake—but alluringly fake. It drew Stephen in – even more then it had in California at his first set after he’d agreed to play Tony’s events calendar. Even though he believed he was better now, that he could avoid the avid looks Tony pressed into the back of his head—especially when he was playing and Tony was, in most cases, the only one watching—he also realised this was completely and utterly false.</p><p>He couldn’t take himself entirely away from those stares, from those eyes, from the way Tony would almost too casually come across the room and reposition Stephen’s hands on the keys like a teacher to a child. His fingers picked over Stephen’s with something like possession, pressing his warm palm down against the cool back of the doctor’s hand to move it into place before he’d lean down and whisper directly into the arch of his ear, “You’ve gotten sloppy, playing in all those shitty clubs and bars.” Then, with practiced ease, he’d slide his other hand down Stephen’s back and press against his spine. “Straighten that posture, doctor.”</p><p>Stephen would sit rather uncomfortably for the next while.</p><p>Tonight, though, he was determined for the first time Tony and he had seen each other to not be a repeat of those, no matter how much Stephen secretly enjoyed the keen pressure left by Tony’s hands. Tonight he was going to play his best—and he did. He played anything and everything he could think of to take Tony’s attention, to guide the man to him – not to be teacher, not to correct Stephen’s playing – but to hear gentle compliments and praise, to be lavished upon with words from that cruel tongue. More than enough attention was on him part-way through his set, as guests and the like stood about and listened to his sped-up version of one of the classics, putting a modern twist through it in the workings of <em>Coldplay</em> because why not? It’s 2008, for God’s sakes.</p><p>But, for once, Stephen honestly didn’t care for their clapping and their high tones of cheers. He only wanted Tony’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Obadiah Stane standing like the beast he was; his hulking shoulders drawn back, his chin tipped up. He was talking to a bright-looking young woman who looked at him with fragile distaste, while he pointed and gestured at Stephen—thank goodness he was playing far too loudly to hear whatever the bulldog was saying: he was sure it wasn’t anything terribly good.</p><p>The crowds dispersed soon after and Stephen went back to the quieter classics, the lazy tunes his fingers played over without regard for accuracy. These ones, he could do them in his sleep—he was at least half-sure he had done at some point with how early his practices sometimes had to be. Thank goodness he had his own piano now, thank goodness it actually worked and all the keys were playable and he need only come back from work or wake up early enough to practice; no more dingy bars and sweaty clubs.</p><p>(And God forbid any of those places found out he was a doctor in his day-to-day; just once that had happened and he’d been interrupted with constant medical inquiries.)</p><p>It wasn’t long before everything was winding down and Stephen lolled about with some chords to relax the tension in his fingers. He let himself fall into a snooze almost, watching the dallying guests before, finally, he decided he’d had enough; he’d played over his time by at least an hour. He closed the top down and stood up, stretching out the aches in his legs.</p><p>“That was impressive,” came that all-too familiar voice with its rich overture and purring tones. “You really had something to say with that, didn’t you?”</p><p>Stephen turned to Tony. The man’s eyebrows shot up and he whistled. “No more curls?”</p><p>“They’re still there,” said Stephen, running a hand through his hair. “Just not as tight.”</p><p>“Ah.” Tony scratched his eyebrow. He turned his eyes down to the left. “Well. You played very nicely tonight, Stephen—sorry, I mean <em>Dr. Strange</em>, as I was being corrected earlier.” Laughter infiltrated his gentle tone. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it over here until now, and after you’ve tried so hard to catch my attention. Really held those notes on <em>Killer Queen</em>, by the way; impressed.” Tony walked the few steps over to the piano and leant down against it, tipping his head and slowly raising it until his eyes met Stephen’s.</p><p>It took the surgeon a moment to realise Tony wasn’t just looking at him, but <em>observing</em> him. Tensing under the concentrated stare of the billionaire, Stephen replied, “Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”</p><p>“Practice looks good on you,” Tony replied without hesitation, reopening the lid to drum his fingers over the keys. Behind them, the staff had begun to clear up but Tony gestured from the piano to Stephen and said, “Play me something, piano man.”</p><p>Letting out a sigh, Stephen retook his seat and pyramided his fingers before closing his hands around his thumbs; the crack was audible, but not loud. He rolled his wrists. “Play what, Mr. Stark?”</p><p>Tony shrugged. “What’s your favourite thing to play?”</p><p>Stephen looked up at him. “<em>Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen, 1986</em>.” At second thought, he added, “From the album <em>Various Positions</em>.”</p><p>“That’s some knowledge—I mean, sorry. I mean – really? <em>Hallelujah</em>.” Tony raised his eyebrows, his dark eyes lightening.</p><p>“Yes. It’s a good piece.” Stephen’s lip jolted into a smile as Tony was taken off-guard by the admission. “You can play it in nearly any emotion: anger, love, sadness...” He lifted his fingers on to the keys and played the general melody, the tension in his posture settling. “Even joy.”</p><p>“Huh,” Tony replied, moving from Stephen’s right to his left. “OK. I’ll bite—play <em>Hallelujah</em> for me.” After a second of thought, he added in a lower voice, “Play it how you enjoy most.”</p><p>Stephen downed his eyes from staring at Tony Stark’s face. Early lines of aging had appeared across his otherwise well-kept complexion from stress and a hard life well-played, but had a somewhat healthier glow to him than he’d had back when they first met. His hair, Stephen noted, was slightly more unkempt than usual from the evening’s humidity of people jostling this way and that, smothering into each other’s space without a thought for whether anyone cared for the intoxication of others surrounding them.</p><p>Mindlessly running his tongue over his lips, Stephen turned back to the piano and began to play. As he did, his posture straightened from its lax slump and he drew himself into the perfect example his teacher would have loved for him to be.</p><p>He needed no music sheet to play this song. It was his daily ritual; his wake up and his cool down. It wasn’t something he simply did and forgot about afterwards, no, it was what carried him through to the next song, to the next tempo, to whatever his mood wanted at that moment to be. He’d played it on his Hoffman just before leaving for the event, his satchel of music packed and sitting by the door, letting it calm his nerves enough to sort out the headache sitting against his frontal lobe. When he’d arrived and been escorted to the piano in the corner, he’d played it then, too, to feel out the subdue notes of the keys and the faster, more agile ones he’d need to consider later into his playing.</p><p>Stephen’s eyes half-shut as he played, humming beneath his breath the quiet version of the song, the gentle ebb and flow; he poured gradual love into the playing, with approachable sadness clinging to the softest of notes. When he reached the end, lost in his head, his palms fell gently on to the keys and lay there as the last few thrums sounded out.</p><p>People say silence speaks louder than words, but Stephen had never thought Tony Stark was a man abiding by those old idioms. Dragging his hands from the piano and dropping them into his lap, Stephen looked over his shoulder and said, “How was that, Mr. Stark?”</p><p>Tony blinked slowly at him, gentle in his regard and manner as he gestured for Stephen to stand up from the chair. “It was good,” he said, recomposing himself, smoothing the subtle darkness from his expression as he himself sat down at the piano and stretched his fingers across the keys. “It was nicely delivered, with a certain – I dunno – personal sadness.”</p><p>“You could say that,” said Stephen, lifting his eyes from Tony’s nimble fingers as they played out a few quick chords across the keys before playing through the national anthem once without actual regard for the sentimentality of it. A second later, Stephen realised this was Tony’s warm-up; this was what Tony did when he sat down to practice, to play his Blüthner. This was witnessing the very comforts of the pianist’s soul, and Stephen felt himself grow hot at being allowed to hear it; it was messier than he’d thought it would be, and quite quick if perhaps waywardly clumsy.</p><p>Stephen waited, picking through the abandoned tunes Tony began and then left alone to simmer in the background—not forgotten, incomplete almost. He unstrung chords and notes which should have gone together and fastened others without a second’s hesitation. “What do you want me to play?” Tony asked a moment after discarding his attempt at <em>Don’t Stop Me Now</em> by <em>Queen</em>. “Song for a song, doctor.”</p><p>Blinking out the trance he was slowly being lulled into, Stephen said, “Your favourite. Play your favourite, Tony.”</p><p>Tony moved his fingers into position, and then paused – as if rethinking, contemplating. A few heartbeats later, he moved them again and, with another bout of hesitation, began to play <em>Piano Man<em> by <em>Billy Joel</em> without much more emotion than what the song itself demanded. He sat stock-straight as he did, his chin slightly bowed, and a darkness against the violence of his eyes.</em></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Stephen gained nearly nothing from the performance, and when Tony finished he closed the top and just sat there a moment. It struck Stephen then they were both reflecting over what they’d shared, and how one had been distinctly more personal than the other. Tony cleared his throat and stood up, patting down his pockets in search of his shielding sunglasses, but he’d obviously set them down somewhere or, most likely, left them in his Audi; Stephen saw the maddening look in his eye at losing them, but chose to ignore it as he said, “Why would I have expected anything else from you, Stark?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Most do,” said Tony, fixing a smile onto his face despite his jitteriness. He gestured Stephen away from the piano, across to the abandoned buffet still laden with picked-at food and spilt drink. Taking an unopened bottle from between the half-empty and half-full ones littering the table, Tony popped the cork and then reached for glasses, pouring a healthy amount of alcohol into each. “To you, Dr. Strange.” He lifted his glass for a toast. “I hear you’ve come into some good money lately, and are flourishing in your research grants.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I am,” Stephen admitted, taking the glass—one wouldn’t hurt. It was his swansong, after all; his contract to play the events was up now, and he thought he’d done rather well with the last one. They clinked their glasses together. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I’m glad you could do tonight, though,” said Tony, swirling his drink a few times—bringing it to his nose, inhaling, and then downing it in one go. “I’m off to Afghanistan next week for a new weapons demo—my Jericho missile.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Stephen tried very hard to forget Tony’s business. To be a doctor he didn’t have to disagree with war and weaponry, but what was the point if he did? The brutality wasn’t the reason he detested it, though, it was simply the injustice from one side having the upper hand. Strategy was only strategy when there was involvement and interest—when there was something which kept the boredom from sinking in and the senselessness from beginning, but what was war becoming if not just the senseless and absolute murder of all in the vicinity of an enclave?</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>In Stephen’s view, there was no beauty left in war when you involved the weaponry Stark Industries made. A lot of people would disagree with that, he knew—the whole premise, really—which was why he tended not to engage himself in those sorts of discussions.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Ah. Interesting,” said Stephen without any interest whatsoever, flicking his eyes to the right to avoid looking into the slit-eyed impatience Tony favoured in regards to a lot of what Stephen had to say—the man had casually cruel intent in his eyes, all of which Stephen knew of and had seen before; it was nothing he couldn’t handle, despite the wealth backing up the other man. Stephen adjusted the subject, gesturing across at the piano. “Not much time to practice out there, though.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Not much,” Tony at once agreed, staring at Stephen over the rim of his glass. He changed the subjected entirely. “D’you need a lift back to your apartment?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I can manage,” said Stephen, setting down the empty glass to retrieve his satchel.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He hadn’t expected Tony to be so strong-willed about it, as he drew up beside him and clasped Stephen’s wrist in his rough fingers. “Please, Stephen, I insist.” He let go immediately, and his eyes flirted with the gentle pressuring he’d applied to Stephen’s wrist as the doctor gave it a conscious rub. “Happy’s got the night off, so it’ll just be me. C’mon.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Stephen raised his head, casting a dallying glance to the clock above them. “Well...”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>+</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>And that was how Stephen ended up in the passenger seat of Tony’s bright red Audi R8, sitting slightly reclined as the older man drove through the peopled streets of New York. “It’s nice here,” Tony said absentmindedly. “I’m half-tempted to move my headquarters up here, you know—especially if that means I’m closer to my neurosurgeon.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Stephen tried not to react to the careless possession in Tony’s voice by his words, opting instead to turn his eyes on the deserted business buildings around them. “Midtown is nice,” he recommended, shrugging.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Well, maybe I’ll do more than consider it, then,” Tony replied coolly, fixing his sunglasses. “After Afghanistan.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Are you looking forward to that?” Stephen asked, watching the other man smirk humourlessly from the corner of his eye.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Sure.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“You aren’t, are you?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Eh. Stark Industries allows me time to tinker with what I want, and that’s the important thing to me; I design a few weapons every year, sell them to whoever’ll buy ‘em, and then use the rest of my time actually doing shit I want to do.” Tony sat back in his car, driving carefully but without the mechanical straightness most had about even their fanciest cars. “I tinker with my cars, I listen to my music, I drink, I sleep with whoever I want – when I want, and I play my piano.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Ah,” said Stephen, giving a gradual, if unconvinced nod. “OK. That sounds... enjoyable.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Tony didn’t respond, and Stephen didn’t attempt to make further conversation. The rest of the ride to the apartment was spent in the patchy silence of static and the rev of the Audi.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>+</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Thank you for driving me home,” said Stephen as he stepped out from the car, turning his eyes up to his apartment complex. It wasn’t where he wanted to be. Despite its prime location it was still one of the less expensive units in the block and it sat around the higher skyscrapers like a mound of dirt in comparison. The rooms were small and the walls paper-thin; he had to pick his moments to get deep into practice to avoid his reality star mom neighbour next door from complaining too bitterly about him on her show.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>The old man next door was just as bad. A retired podiatrist, he made it clear from day one his life in the complex had been better before Stephen moved in, even before they’d said hello. When the piano arrived, his only remark was ‘<em>he’d see that thing gone in two years and no more than that, or else he’d jump from his balcony</em>.’</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Stephen had found it bitingly funny at first, but when the seriousness persisted on the old man’s shaggy face he’d slowly grown to take moments of pleasure from undoing the man’s early mornings on his balcony by leaving a door open while practicing funeral music—<em>Just in case today was the day</em>.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“No problem, doctor.” Tony rolled the window down and leant out. “I liked your set tonight. It... it suited you, if that’s anyway of phrasing.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Thank you, Mr. Stark. I hope your trip to Afghanistan goes without issue,” Stephen replied. His eyes fell back on Tony and, to his surprise, he saw an envelope in his grasp being held out; it was crinkled at one edge, suggesting it might have been in Tony’s pocket all night, but otherwise it looked almost pressed for how pristine it was. “What’s this?” he asked, taking it, observing the slant of his name in Tony’s precise boarding school handwriting. Pinching one edge, Stephen added, “I am a doctor, you know; I could have this examined for anything unsanitary.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“It’s nothing like that,” Tony snorted, downing his sunglasses to give Stephen a wink. “And, unfortunately, it’s not a renewal of your contract: Pepper says I can’t keep you playing for me forever—apparently you have to change the face of modern medicine or some crap.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Stephen’s lip quirked into a smile and he started to open the envelope.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Tony’s hand on his wrist stopped him, and Stephen turned his stare down to him in alarm to see he’d gotten a step out of his car to stop Stephen from opening the envelope. “Do yourself a favour, Stephen,” said Tony lowly and quiet, his eyes betraying his intentions for their closeness—but whether he would act on the slight dip of his line of sight to Stephen’s lips was obviously a continuing debate in his head. “Open it when you get inside.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Why?” Stephen asked, leaning back.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>The movement just cause Tony to lean further towards him and he said, “Because I said so.” Tony squeezed Stephen’s wrist and then drew away, contemplation in his eyes, before he chose not to push his luck with the doctor and instead settled back into the driver’s seat of his car. “Anyway.” The unresolved tension around them dispersed with one word and a crooked smile from the billionaire. “I’ll be seeing you again, I’m sure—gotta hightail it to Cali, now.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Drive safely,” Stephen replied automatically, flicking his eyes to the road. Despite his blank expression, inside he was overwhelmed and unsatisfied by the engagement of his evening, despite having played and been enjoyed; for some reason, the night felt incomplete.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I always do,” Tony replied. He gave Stephen a forced smile and then sped off down the street.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>+</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>When Stephen got into his apartment having successfully avoided his neighbours from both sides—not to mention the one with the four kids across the hall, ugh—he immediately set to making himself a decaf coffee to settle down for the night. He turned on some crap TV, made half-edible pasta and settled on the couch to unwind for the evening, letting his mind drift from his detail-intensive day into the broad strokes of his night.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He forgot about the envelope in the pocket of his dress coat as he shrugged it off and indulged in the stupidities of a hospital drama, adding commentary for his own benefit and only slightly wishing someone else was around to tell him to shut up.</em>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading ! Let me know what you think; I always love to read your guys' thoughts and comments ! -J</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hostage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>A feeling built up in him at the possessive touch, as Tony’s hand smoothed over his skin; the shredded warmth of his worked palm sitting against the line of Stephen’s jaw. He tried not to lean into it—because he couldn’t have what Tony’s touch promised. When it finally withdrew, he took a breath for what felt like the first time in a life spent underwater.</p>
</blockquote>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Afghanistan... happened. Much like the rest of the world, Stephen Strange mourned the likely loss of the billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Tony Stark. He omitted genius from the reports he read in the quiet of his office because, well, not much of a genius, was he? Stephen couldn’t help but feel oddly bitter—because this definitely wasn’t how Stark should have gone out. It should have been in a blaze of glory – with a heavenly choir to send him down to Hell.</p><p>It shouldn’t have been... this.</p><p>A personal, hurriedly-written letter from Ms. Pepper Potts arrived in his lockbox the next morning, asking whether he would consider playing Tony’s funeral.</p><p>“<em>Because he did really enjoy your playing,</em>” she added in a sweeping scrawl near the bottom of the SI-embossed paper, even though she hadn’t needed to. Of course Stephen was going to say yes: he wanted to say goodbye to Tony Stark, and surely the bes—</p><p>“Stephen! Stephen!”</p><p>“Christine?” Stephen looked up from his paperwork to the young A&amp;E doctor at his door. She had so much potential—wasted on saving peoples’ lives in a hurry. “What’s wrong? Is something the matter?”</p><p>“Come quick, Stephen! It’s—it’s Tony Stark! He’s alive.”</p><p>Stephen stared at her, his eyebrows slowly going up. “A-alive?” he asked, stuttering. An omnipotent presence within him moved him from his chair, nearly tripping around his desk to follow her from the room and down the hall, the stairs, and into the silence the hospital had fallen into. “What do you-” Stephen shifted his eyes from the back of her head to the old television set they had in reception situated above the patient’s check-in desk. On it, a newsreader was commenting on a badly-recorded video with Tony front and centre.</p><p>“He’s being held hostage,” muttered a young man to his blind mother.<br/>
“My word, what a thing to show,” a dress-clad mother gasped, hiding her child’s eyes.<br/>
“I can’t believe it; Tony Stark’s alive!” a teenager with a broken leg cheered.</p><p>Stephen’s eyes trailed over Tony’s beaten face when they enlarged the video. There was talking – demands, the US Government, Stark Industries statements – but all Stephen could focus on at that moment was Tony’s face. It had that same stubborn ruggedness from a week ago, but it was too pale and starting to look sunken from the first signs of malnutrition. Stephen swallowed the bile rising in his throat, tearing his eyes away to see Christine was giving him a puzzled look.</p><p>Christine was... well... She was very nice.</p><p>“Are you all right, Stephen?” she asked, gentle. She set a hand on his arm. “Do you need some water?”</p><p>“Yeah, I, uh, I think I do—please, excuse me.” Stephen left to his office. He turned off the light a few moments after stepping inside and closed his door, letting himself fall backwards into his chair as the world started spinning—what was this reaction? He’d not experienced this... This could only be joy, surely? Joy at Tony being alive? It had to be that.</p><p>He swept his desk of anything besides a few sheets of plain papers, deciding to take sick leave as his stomach apparently dropped out from under him and he found himself nearly retching into the nearest trashcan. Stephen waved off the pressed concern of a visiting virologist as he left, calling a taxi to take him home.</p><p>For the next two days he lay in bed listening to the noises of the building—his left-side neighbour was having a party and his right-side neighbour was complaining, hoping the noise travelled through their thin walls. Stephen shoved his head beneath his pillow and slept through most of the initial coverage concerning Tony’s hostage situation and, when Stephen finally emerged one night to make himself some toast, he finally felt ready to face the piano.</p><p>He hadn’t practiced since Tony vanished; he just... hadn’t wanted to. Even <em>Hallelujah</em> had abandoned him. Slowly, stepping around the island and towards the large instrument in front of his windows, Stephen pushed himself down on to the stool and opened the top, staring at the clean keys with biting impatience for them to work without his input. Raising his eyes to the clock on the table, Stephen set his fingers carefully on to the piano and played a variety of soft chords so as to not wake his neighbours.</p><p>When he was warmed up, he absentmindedly played the saddest version of <em>Hallelujah</em> he could, letting himself barely think as he played through the song with every bit of his forlorn angst he’d harboured inside of his rib-caged heart for the past few days. He held the last note, unfeeling, and then closed the lid to turn on the television.</p><p><em>NO NEW NEWS ON TONY STARK HOSTAGE SITUATION</em>.</p><p>Stephen went back to bed.</p>
<h6></h6><p>Three months.</p><p>Stephen didn’t bother counting the days, the weeks, the extra hours.</p><p>Just. Three months.</p><p>“Dr. Strange, your concern is appreciated-” Ms. Potts, sounding half-broken, said over the phone, “But Tony has had a medical check-up and is currently more concerned about the company than his health—I’m sure you saw the press conference.” Although she sounded bitter, the brush-off was more than evident in her fractured tone.</p><p>“Please—please, Pepper. I’m the best in this whole damn city – my record is spotless-” Stephen was practically pulling his hair out over the call, pacing his office without the door as tightly shut as it should be if the evident fumbling outside of it was anything to go by. “There are people who would—Hell, there are people who <em>have</em> tried to convince me to operate on them – people with lesser conditions than Stark. I did see the press conference, and do you really think I couldn’t tell he was on the very edge of collapse? Please, Pepper, my-my research—I’ll research whatever I need to – just-just let me come down and be on-hand, please-”</p><p>“Stephen,” Ms. Potts interrupted, terse. “It’s going to be a no.” She called off without saying a goodbye.</p><p>Stephen, despite hearing the dial tone, sunk into his chair and continued speaking into the receiver, “Please, wait. Please, jus... Just let me... Please...” When the office remained all but silent, he chucked the corded-phone against the wall and packed up for the day. When he arrived home, he slammed his fingers onto the piano and played until his neighbours were threatening to call the police to report a noise compliant.</p><p>“Do it!” Stephen yelled back, halfway through a rendition of something vaguely Chopin with some added Coldplay. He drifted from one song to the next without contemplating his music sheets with more than a glance, rattling off names and dates and bands before, finally, he finished at six PM with the angriest <em>Hallelujah</em> he’d ever played.</p><p>He didn’t even know why he was pissed off; he didn’t have any right to be, or need to be honestly. Pepper Potts had made it abundantly clear Tony didn’t want to be disturbed by any outside doctor—including Stephen. The fact Stephen thought that might have been a direct quote was both sickening and thrilling and his stomach hadn’t calmed down since hearing it.</p><p>Stephen trudged across to his kitchen and made some coffee, using the bathroom as it brewed. Although he wasn’t terribly hungry, he threw together whatever was in his fridge within date and, well, it didn’t taste half-bad so that was definitely a bonus.</p><p>He sat at the island, contemplating his dismissal from Tony’s life, and raised his eyes to the New York City skyline. He couldn’t continue this; his work was suffering just as much as he was from the continued guilt over not being there for Tony (why? He wasn’t a man who felt guilt; especially over something like this), and yet he wasn’t even wanted.</p><p>Stephen finished his meal and coffee, grabbed a bottle of water and left his kitchen for bed.</p>
<h6></h6><p>Stephen didn’t think about Tony for a long time. He didn’t even think about him when he announced himself as Iron Man. Stephen thought it was pompous, and he said as much after coming out of a relatively difficult surgery to the news. “The man is an idiot,” Stephen said to Christine without regard for the patients standing within earshot. “He’ll kill himself one of these days.”</p><p>“Stephen-” Christine tried, following him down the hallway. When her pinprick-footsteps caught up to his wide strides, she asked, “Stephen, are you all right?”</p><p>“All right?” Stephen turned on his heel, reminiscent more of a dancer than a doctor or pianist. The thought gave him pause, thinking of the many news items he’d sat and watched on Stark in the past few months and how one of those had gone into his ‘troubled’ past. It made him laugh outwardly into the silence of his apartment at three AM. “Christine, tell me: Do I look all right?”</p><p>“No,” said the A&amp;E doctor without hesitation, raising her chin defiantly as she squared her lithe shoulders. “You look ill, Stephen. I think you need to take some time off...” She folded her arms across her small chest, her fingers splaying over her elbows. “Don’t think no one has noticed you started sleeping in your office.”</p><p>“I do not sleep in my office,” Stephen defended himself, but the retort came with fragile dependence on the other person’s belief, and Christine’s disbelief was more than obvious in the depressed corners of her eyes. “I, I- just... I...”</p><p>“You, you, you, Stephen. Please, take some time off. We want you to get back to who you actually are, and this is not you—I saw you snap at that five-year-old the other day just for swinging his legs back and forth under that squeaky chair in the hallway.” Christine shook her head dismissively. “Please, Stephen. Go home and rest.”</p><p>+</p><p><em>I can’t rest</em>, thought Stephen as he cleaned away some of the more sensitive pieces of work from his office, settling them haphazardly into catalogued systems he’d kept in-check for so long but had let deteriorate in the past few months. His fingers played with the hem of his un-tucked shirt, rolling a loose thread between his fingers as he picked up his satchel and left his office for a ‘strongly recommended’ break, as the paperwork pushed under his door said. If they needed him, they’d call him in apparently but Stephen was more than just a little doubtful about that.</p><p>Leaving the hospital, Stephen went straight home. He walked for once, hoping it would clear his head, but he told himself the air pressure was wrong; it was humid today, and a storm could break at any moment. Stephen avoided the TV crew following his reality-star neighbour through the car-park and got to the apartment just in time for the sky to give and for a wall of water to begin drenching the city. He took the stairs to his floor, two-three at a time, managing just about to make it there before his neighbour’s screeches about the weather started up from the elevator and, again, Stephen thought to himself, <em>I can’t rest</em>.</p><p>Dinner was a docile affair. Christine was right about his sleeping in his office the past few nights, and unfortunately that meant most of his fresh food had gone off. Stephen resorted to some canned soup which he added dried chilli flakes to in an attempt to ward off any wet chills he’d gotten from his walk back through the varying temperature and the pollution of the city. He sat in front of his TV, where the news was trying ever-so-hard to convince him to care about Tony Stark’s reveal, but he was beginning to have a hard time concentrating on it – or anything at all, really. <em>I can’t rest, though</em>.</p><p>He wasn’t exactly sure when this <em>I can’t rest</em> thing had become his mantra. Stephen finished off his soup and went to wash the bowl, happy to stay in the approaching darkness of the evening but deciding to switch on a light when he moved into his bedroom and collapsed on to the musky sheets; the dull smell of himself made his nose wrinkle in disgust and, despite the tiredness clinging to his headspace, Stephen diligently changed his sheets in the hope of surrendering to a night’s slumber once everything was clean. <em>But I can’t rest</em>, he thought again as he collected a few books from the shelves in his living area and ignored the wheezing breaths of his left-side neighbour, even though the doctor in him said he should investigate.</p><p>Stephen fell asleep before his head hit the pillow, nose shoved into his clean sheets. He was woken up four hours later by the pounding of footsteps in the hallway and, when he poked his head out to enquire as to why the ambulance service was there, he was told his reality-star neighbour had succumbed to some underlying health condition. Nodding to them, he retreated back into his apartment and to bed.</p>
<h6></h6><p>There were piles of flowers outside the next day as fans of her show came in the hundreds to pay their respects. Stephen said his sorrys, but he otherwise remained rather aloof from it and went to have an overpriced coffee down the street. It was there he realised exactly why Christine had wanted him to have this break—because that wasn’t him. He cherished the ideals of life as a doctor and, despite his neighbour being an absolute pain, he should have gone around there last night when he heard her gasping for breath instead of falling asleep without another thought on the subject.</p><p>He should have wanted to save her, to do something, but he’d forgone the thought without even a consideration as to if she’d need any help. Stephen ran a hand through his matted hair and asked the barista to put his coffee into a takeaway cup, heading back to his apartment. The block was oddly silent without the once-constant presence of the TV crew; they’d filmed earlier, apparently, to get a last word on her death—knocked on Stephen’s door, even, finally wanted an interview with the ‘asshole doctor next door’ and Stephen was thankful he wasn’t home. It wouldn’t do anything for his career.</p><p>That night, he watched an episode of her show and decided, plainly, her worth alive was as much as her death: not much. Stephen took a shower, cleaned his teeth, washed out his eyes and put on nice clothes—he could afford a dinner somewhere to take his mind off the trials and tribulations of his life.</p><p>Pulling on his suit-jacket, smoothing his hands into the pockets, Stephen’s fingers slid around a tight envelope. Grazing his fingers along the seam, Stephen carefully removed it and stared at Tony’s neat scrawl—it was from that night, that last time he’d seen Tony, from before he got like that and Stephen got like this. Taking a knife to open it, Stephen pulled out the typed letter and briefly cast his eyes down it.</p><p>A thank you note, with a few hundred dollar bills attached with a paperclip, telling him to go out and buy something nice—something he wouldn’t buy for himself but wanted. Blinking away the unexpected pressure settling behind his eyes, Stephen pocketed the money and attached the note to the pin-board from his old student digs; he’d only taken it with him as a joke, but hey maybe he’d actually get some use out of it.</p><p>Stephen slipped out into the night and considered, momentarily, calling for a taxi – but from experience he knew there was a nice, inexpensive Italian just down the street and he’d not been there for a while. When he stepped inside out of the light drizzle (the weather was matching his mood quite well lately), Stephen requested a table for one.</p><p>“Make that for two.”</p><p>A gasp stuttered from the young waitress Stephen had been awkwardly conversing with. He didn’t need to be told who’d walked in behind him or to even look over his shoulder to know the voice—he’d heard it both in person and on television a couple times before. Just a couple, not many.</p><p>Heh. Fate must hate him.</p><p>“Mr. Stark,” Stephen greeted, smoothing a hand through his shortly-cut hair.</p><p>“Dr. Strange,” came the smooth reply, and Tony stepped up beside him. “What happened to the tight curls? I liked them.”</p><p>Stephen shrugged and returned his attention to the waitress. “A table for two,” he corrected, with a nod in Tony’s general direction. They were seated near the back, in one of the more private booths, and given a complimentary bottle of wine.</p><p>“That’s the thing when you’re rich, and especially when you’re famous,” said Tony, tipping his glass – swirling it. He brought it close to look at the colour. “People just give things to you: pre-paid flights; free food; gifts; private piano concerts.”</p><p>Stephen snorted. “Smooth, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>The twinkle disappeared from the older man’s eye. “Please,” he said, sounding like he meant it, leaning forwards in his seat. “Call me Tony.”</p><p>“I would prefer we keep this businesslike,” Stephen replied a little more curtly than he would have, had he not felt like muck under SI’s shoes in the last few months. Tony’s eyes narrowed considerably at the tone, but Stephen ignored it as he said, “What can I do to help you, sir?”</p><p>“... Sir’s fine,” Tony murmured under his breath, his fingers splaying over the menu. Then he actually replied, “Listen... I’ve not really been fair to you, and I’m sorry.” Levelling Stephen with a hard stare, he added, “I would love to make it up to you, Stephen—I would offer you some more jobs, but from what I hear you’re busy being an actual doctor.”</p><p>Stephen gave him a terse nod. “I am.” He waited for Tony to say something, but the man had returned his attention to the wine—sniffing it, tasting it, and casually checking for sediment with the keen eye of a well-tasted alcoholic. The awkwardness around them unsettled Stephen’s stomach, but so did Tony’s sudden appearance. “How is it you knew I was here?”</p><p>“People are predictable,” Tony replied immediately, not looking away from the drink. “Plus, I was actually in your hospital a few hours ago and asked – Kristal? Chrissy?-”</p><p>“Dr. Palmer,” Stephen replied, pulling a menu out from under the heaviness of Tony’s arm – noticing for the first time the billionaire was dressed casually in what amounted to short-sleeved everything; tee-shirt and jacket. Wetness clung to the dark hairs littering his arms, telling Stephen he’d been out in the rain for a while to still be wet. He resisted the urge to offer his own jacket in the knowledge the older man would more than likely scoff at the idea. “Why were you in hospital?”</p><p>“Dangerous world when you’re me,” Tony replied offhandedly, finally removing his sunglasses. “Anyway I asked if you worked somewhere in the building and she said you were taking some vacation days...” He gave Stephen a look. “The Stephen Strange I know doesn’t take vacation days, so I figured there was something iffy going on. I had a meeting to go to right after – buying one of the buildings around here – so I was just driving past to begin door-knocking, when I saw you duck in here and, well, here I am.”</p><p>Stephen couldn’t deny the gentle jolt of something at hearing his name purred by Tony—it had been so long. The gruffness from their reunion had slipped now, and his voice came out smooth and unhindered by the social pressures usually around them. It briefly reminded Stephen of their time together in California, in Malibu, at the dazzlingly white piano overlooking the crisp seas of the ocean. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stephen complimented Tony on his observation skills. The billionaire laughed.</p><p>“You pick up things in my businesses,” Tony replied, calling over the waitress. “You picked what you want yet, Stephen? Share a starter, and a main each, yeah?” To the waitress, he said, “We good to pick desserts later?”</p><p>“Of course,” she seamlessly replied with a faint accent, hotfooting as she drew out her notepad and pencil. “What can I get you both?”</p><p>“Uhm, yes.” Stephen gave a brief glance down the menu, and then handed it to her with his main course. He left Tony to pick their starter, flicking a look around the restaurant at the other diners—he was brought back a few seconds later at the fluid Italian brushing out of Tony’s pinched lips, pointing here and there at menu items; the waitress looked suddenly engrossed and entirely consumed as she wrote down the orders with easy hesitation at the switch of her brain from English to Italian.</p><p>She wasn’t the only one caught out, Stephen parting his lips in an ‘o’ shape as he listened to the smooth highs and lows of the language spinning from Tony. He handed over his menu a second later and turned back to Stephen, pleasure settling in his dipped mouth—Tony didn’t raise his eyes from looking at Stephen when the waitress enquired something with a gesture between them.</p><p>“<em>Il mio ragazzo</em>,” Tony said with laughable confidence, putting a finger to his lips and adding, “<em>Non dirlo a nessuno</em>.”</p><p>She giggled and left.</p><p>“What did you tell her?” Stephen asked, his voice soft as he stared unblinking at the other man across the table. His stomach, growling for food only moments ago, had dropped out from under him at the smooth Italian from Tony’s lips. Curling his hand against the table, Stephen repeated his question impatiently.</p><p>Tony continued not to answer, just shaking his head slowly and with enduring intrigue in his eyes. He observed Stephen, looked at him with an unflinching sweep, and didn’t care he was staring: Tony Stark could stare at what he wanted, in any way he wanted, and he was not about to be told different. When he finally spoke, he said, “It’s not important. Anyway – what can I do to make up for the last... four-ish, five months?”</p><p>“You don’t have anything to make up for,” Stephen responded, though he kept the Italian in mind—not that he could reproduce it for anyone later. “It’s nice to see you’re... looking so well.”</p><p>“Yeah, nearly dying a few times will make you value life a bit more,” Tony replied immediately, leaning into the table and their shared space. “Especially when you want something and you haven’t gotten it, yet.” His eyes created over Stephen’s shoulder, looking across the room behind him, before refocusing on the conversation. “And excuse you but I have a lot to make up for! Pepper told me you bugged her about my recovery.”</p><p>“I did not bug her,” Stephen responded, sending Tony a glare without any malice. “I merely wanted to offer my services. I have a perfect record, you know.”</p><p>“I know, doc,” Tony replied, as if knowing exactly what Stephen would say. He raised a hand to press over his chest, over his- “<em>And</em> I know you’re probably dying to get a look at this.”</p><p>Stephen flicked his eyes down to the faint glow beneath Tony’s tee-shirt. He really, really wanted to get a look at it. Just like everyone else, Stephen couldn’t deny he was fascinated by the arc reactor powering Tony Stark and keeping him alive. “It would be improper-”</p><p>“Obviously,” Tony said, gesturing to their surroundings. “Another time.” He tipped his glass and took another drink, then set it down when their starter appeared. He said something to her, again in Italian, and she rushed off—returning a moment later with a jug of water. Thanking her, Tony said, “I’m driving, so...”</p><p>“Very good,” Stephen murmured, taking a small plate to pile a few bits from their shared starter for himself. They ate in relative quiet, Stephen thinking he finally got away with it, when Tony set down his fork and sat up.</p><p>“Why won’t you let me make it up to you?” he asked with something like annoyance in the underbelly of his tone. “You know, when a billionaire-”</p><p>“I couldn’t give a shit that you’re a billionaire—I’ll be near-enough a millionaire myself in the next few years,” Stephen replied through gritted teeth as they jointly cleared the starter, briefly canning their beginnings of an argument for the waitress to retrieve their shared platter and announce (in English) it wouldn’t be long until their mains were out. Once she’d left, Stephen turned back to Tony—to see the man’s face had fallen into something approaching grey, showing his age tonight as he was rebuked. Stephen tentatively offered an olive branch, “Fine. What would you like to do?”</p><p>“I have a party-”</p><p>“How surprisingly.”</p><p>“<em>I have a party</em> coming up, a soirée before the Stark Expo – have you heard about the Stark Expo? – and I...” He paused, considering, looking from Stephen to the waiter and waitress duo arriving with their meals. He thanked them, they lingered, and he briefly smiled his dismissal. They left, although the young man – a darker complexion, a soft brown in his eyes, the sort of smile which elicited promises – tried to catch either of their eyes before she called him away.</p><p>Stephen looked after him, following the swagger of his hips. The shadow of Tony’s hand in the corner of his vision brought him back, a gentle pressure settling on his chin as one of the older man’s rough fingers brushed against his face—obviously about to draw his attention back, but now sitting there like a lover’s hand; comfortable; careful; eliminating any chance of Stephen straying from Tony’s side.</p><p>A feeling built up in him at the possessive touch, as Tony’s hand smoothed over his skin; the shredded warmth of his worked palm sitting against the line of Stephen’s jaw. He tried not to lean into it—because he couldn’t have what Tony’s touch promised. When it finally withdrew, he took a breath for what felt like the first time in a life spent underwater.</p><p>They began to eat their mains – gluten-free pasta for Tony (“I didn’t know you were gluten intolerant.”) and a calzone pizza for Stephen. When they were a little ways through, Stephen cleared his throat and said, “You never finished what you were saying.”</p><p>“Didn’t I?” Tony blinked at him stupidly, a small smile breaking out across his otherwise blank expression. “I’m hosting a soirée before the expo, need to smooth some egos on a few deals I’m undercutting, and... Well... It’s the pharmaceutical industry.”</p><p>“Ah,” Stephen replied as they stepped towards his line of work. He casually licked some tomato sauce off his lips; he didn’t miss the way Tony’s eyes followed the motion, but chose to ignore the hint of murky darkness settling against his eyes. “What’s the problem?”</p><p>“Pep’s away in Europe,” Tony replied immediately, pouring himself some water. “I’m without a date.”</p><p>“I wasn’t aware you two were together,” said Stephen, deflating for some unbeknownst reason. He fleetingly glanced again at the young waiter a few tables away, but Tony brought him back with the slightest tap on his hand, letting his fingers linger; the over familiarity caused Stephen to swallow a bite of his dinner rather thickly.</p><p>“We aren’t,” Tony replied, looking at Stephen in an odd sort of way. “On that topic, guess I should ask: You and Doctor Palm-”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Ah... Do you have a girlfriend?”</p><p>Stephen cast Tony a look he hoped wasn’t too telling. “Not really my area.”</p><p>“Boyfriend, then?” Tony’s tone lifted. “I can work with that,” he muttered more to himself than to Stephen, but the offhand tone of it made the neurosurgeon snort. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”</p><p>“I think so,” Stephen replied earnestly, his stare locking with Tony’s whirlpool-eyes. “You’d like me to... go with you. You’d like to take me out.” Stephen cut into his pizza again, dropping their staring contest—though Tony chased him, tried to reconnect their eyes. Stephen didn’t allow it, instead opting to level a stare at his food and laugh, “What a story you’re going for, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>Tony was an easy read when he was confused, and Stephen relished the chance to pull the rug out from under the smart if suffocating inventor. “I’m sure it will be quite a thing: a young man – a respected doctor – you hired to play the piano all because you were sweet on him. You turn up to your own party now and, instead of having the pianist behind the piano, you have him beside you, under your arm.” Stephen continued speaking, finding the confidence inseparable from the concussing blush brightening his pale cheeks. “I stand there beside you, tapping out songs on your shoulders. A picture, sir; a picture.”</p><p>Stephen finally looked up, only to find Tony had pushed his plate to one side and was leaning forwards now on his arms, back arched and his eyes scanning Stephen’s face with impassable intent behind the dark arousal sitting to a corner. A few moments later he said, “You’ve got it.” His voice flattened, and he sat back, raising an arm to frame the booth. “A picture. That’s what I need—some good publicity with these shits—and someone who’ll look good on my arm for a night.”</p><p>“For a night,” Stephen repeated, unsure why, eyeing the way Tony’s fingers curled against the stained red cushions. Despite his reservations, Stephen managed to mutter out, “Or longer?”</p><p>“Longer,” Tony said immediately, picking up his spoon to swirl it through his pasta. “You’d be doing me a favour. The press have been...”</p><p>“They’ve not exactly been saying nice things lately,” Stephen replied knowledgably. “You want to make it public, then? This... Our... relationship.”</p><p>“It would be,” Tony responded, nodding. He dipped his head forwards, guarding his eyes. “I don’t expect us to last long, of course – we have lives... We can have a private or public breakup; your choice.” When he did look up, he’d made his expression unreadable. “I’ll take the fall. It’ll be my first public adventure into a gay relationship, so I’m bound to be the one to mess it up.”</p><p>Stephen tried to ease the stiffness from his shoulders, throwing a glance over at the waiter he’d been eyeing earlier. Tony didn’t reach for his chin this time. How disappointing. “Fine,” Stephen muttered, finishing what he was going to of his dinner. “When is-”</p><p>“Three weeks,” Tony replied seamlessly, placing his spoon down. He’d collected the last few bits of his pasta to one side, piling them into a small hill. “I’ll draw up a contract.” Clicking his fingers, the waiter and waitress appeared to take their plates. “The dessert menus, please.”</p><p>The lightness had disappeared from Tony’s voice now, and Stephen couldn’t help the jolting of his stomach at the realisation as he stared past the young, approachable face of the waiter and into Tony’s eyes: they were attractive; alive; filled with enough knowledge to pen a thousand books.</p><p>And sad. Very sad.</p>
<h6></h6><p>“I wish you’d have let me pay,” said Stephen as they ventured out of the Italian and into night-time New York City. The rain had stopped now, but the air remained damp and slightly humid, still threatening a storm.</p><p>“Uh, hello? Tony Stark? Famous billionaire?” As soon as they’d left the restaurant, the sunglasses had returned and now Stephen was left to squint to see through the dark lens to catch a glimpse of Tony’s eyes. “Most times I go out I gotta convince ‘em to let me pay—I hope that wasn’t your normal joint, by the way; you won’t get a reservation for months, now.”</p><p>“Charming,” Stephen responded, eyeing the cars along the sidewalk. “Where did you park?”</p><p>“Car-park, ‘course,” said Tony, gesturing towards Stephen’s building. “Around the back.” He yawned into his elbow. “So... How’s practice going?”</p><p>“Practice?” Stephen replied, confused, having momentarily forgotten their shared interest in the piano. He faltered in his step, thoughts busy with other things, and wondered whether he should be truthful about his inability to currently play anything which wasn’t brash and annoyed, but decided he was better off lying when Tony pulled down the side of glasses and asked if he was all right. “I’m fine. Sorry – got in my head; a lot of things to think about right now. Uh. Piano. Yes. It’s going well, thank you, sir.”</p><p>Tony’s lip quirked into a side-smile. “You’ll have to stop that.”</p><p>“Stop what?”</p><p>“‘Sir’. It might be too kinky for some public tastes,” Tony chuckled, stopping at where the curb edged around the side of the building to the car-park behind it. He set a hand on the wall. “Well... This has been lovely.”</p><p>Stephen gave a brief nod, relief pressing through him at being done with the piano topic. He wouldn’t practice tonight, even though he didn’t have work in the morning; his limbs were aching for bed; a headache was forming. “I’ll consider it, then... But for now,” Stephen began, managing a smile. “It has been rather nice, <em>sir</em>.”</p><p>Tony pushed up his glasses. “C’mon, Stephen... Say my name.”</p><p>“Mr. Stark,” Stephen snorted, his smile turning into that awkward thing Christine sometimes mentioned. It soon faltered. Just as Tony looked about to speak, Stephen got there first: “I’m sorry, by the way – about Afghanistan, about Stane and...” He gestured at Tony’s chest, at the arc reactor. “I’m sorry I...”</p><p>Tony raised a hand to set against the reactor beneath his casual wear, his smile dropping as he pressed his palm flush against it. “Yeah. It’s been a hard few months.” With the other hand, he rubbed the back of his neck and let out a lung-emptying sigh. “It’ll all sort itself out.”</p><p>Stephen raised an eyebrow, a pulse thudding through his chest at the implied sadness in the other man’s voice. “Wha-”</p><p>“Oh, boy. Oh, shit.” Tony very pointedly looked down at his watch. “Ah. I, uh, I gotta go. I have some ‘favours’ to take care of, if you catch my drift, Stephen.” He might have winked. “I’m back in New York next week – last adjustments for the party; constant adjustments for the expo—you good to meet up then? Perhaps I can hear a little of your latest playing, hm? See how yer-” he grinned. “See how your fingering’s coming along.”</p><p>“I am trained, you know,” Stephen replied haughtily, straightening his posture. “I take practice very seriously.”</p><p>Tony finally downed his sunglasses, his smile impossibly wide and, with much relief to Stephen (why? Why relief?), it reached his eyes and made them practically light up with humour. Something else touched his lips, a quiver – not of laughter, though; something else the doctor couldn’t quite discern. “I’m sure you do, Stephen,” Tony replied to him, eyes sparkling. “Next week, then? I’ll call you.”</p><p>Stephen took in a breath and then gave a brief nod. That same feeling from last time they’d parted – so, so many months ago – hitting him all at once. It was nauseating the way it flipped his stomach. Something, once again, was incomplete about Tony’s leaving.</p><p>There had been no grab of his wrist this time because of an envelope, no roll of worked fingers across smooth skin. Stephen’s hands tingled, watching the last of Tony’s shadow as it slipped into the darkness of the lot behind the building. There’d been no subtle glancing at his lips, no lean-in, no maybe-maybe not about it.</p><p>Stephen retreated to the doorway and was about to flit inside his building, plenty to think about, when he cast his eyes across to the sidewalk and saw the waiter from the Italian obviously on his way home. Their eyes met. Stephen swept his tongue across his lips. The waiter changed his course, angling his body in a tilt as he walked up to meet the doctor on his doorstep. “Sir,” he whispered, scandalous, biting his lip, tipping his head back to show off the pale arch of his neck. His lips formed around a name he’d half-heard at the doorway to the restaurant. “Mr. Strange.”</p><p>It jolted Stephen from his thoughts immediately and he dropped his body into a slump, turning his head away even as the younger man leant closer to him, offered himself. “Dr. Strange,” Stephen corrected, his body itching, and he swept himself into his building without a glance over his shoulder, slamming the door in the face of possibility. When he arrived in his apartment, he went to the window and stared out across New York for a minute before settling at his piano to practice well into the early hours of the morning until he was tired and spent and more aroused than he’d ever been in his life.</p><p>
  <em>Damn you, Stark.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <strong>Bonus</strong>
</p><blockquote>
  <p>Tony dropped his head back against the headrest of his car and breathed harshly into the humidity of the Audi, allowing himself a moment to collect himself and his thoughts from the evening before he put the engine into gear and drove out of the lot.</p>
  <p><em>Damn you, Strange</em>, he thought as his covered eyes grazed across the sight of the young waiter from the Italian trudging along the sidewalk. He pulled up to the curb, downed his window and waited for him to draw up alongside. Before he got the wrong idea, hand inching towards the door-handle, Tony bit out, "Stay away from him, kid." He pulled down the edge of his sunglasses and glared at the pretty thing, seeing the sudden fear and hesitation present in his features. "He's mine."</p>
</blockquote>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Relationship Agreement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Did you call me- Did you call me <em>dear</em>?”</p>
  <p>“Not a fan of nicknames?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or just that one? I’d have thought you went for the classy type of nickname.”</p>
  <p>“I just... wasn’t expecting it, is all.”</p>
  <p>“So, would you rather I went with <em>sweetcheeks</em>?”</p>
  <p>“<em>No</em>.” Stephen paused in his reading the same paragraph for the eighteenth time, rolling his finger across Tony’s ballpoint pen. “Dear is... fine. Dear is fine.”</p>
</blockquote>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I live !<br/>I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long. Life decided, basically, to short-circuit and I've been playing catch-up with pretty much everything for the last month and a half. I'm hoping to return to some sort of schedule with Piano Man, and my other works, really soon. Thank you guys for your comments last chapter, and your patience for this one--I made it a lil' longer, so hopefully that makes up for it.</p>
<p>Quick word for this chap: there's some implied homophobia - nothing too drastic, but I thought I better mention it in case anyone's going through a hard time right now.<br/>Stay safe, dears &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6></h6><p>Stephen had a very, very boring week, but he guessed that was exactly what they at the hospital wanted him to have. He woke up, he practiced piano (while half asleep), he had breakfast and went for a run. He came back, got washed up, dressed properly, practiced piano, went shopping, came back, ate lunch (sometimes, not always), practiced piano, ate dinner, read something (novel, medical journal, classic, comic, true crime), watched television and, finally—</p>
<p>... Practiced an hour more of piano before bed, which he often times collapsed into too tired to think of anything but getting at least six hours of good sleep so he could get up and repeat the whole process again, taking him closer to being back at work with each passing day.</p>
<p>Eventually, it was Tuesday – and a moderately sunny one at that – and around breakfast time Stephen was contemplating his return to work the next week as he half-ate half-inhaled a bagel when, with a burst of sound, his new StarkPhone2 cell (which arrived on Monday, in a brown paper envelope, with a small card reading nothing but <em>For you –TS</em>) began vibrating against the slick tabletop. Stephen stared at the small handheld device, eyebrow quirked. This was the first time it had rung. Begrudgingly setting his breakfast to one side, he opened the flip-phone and said through a mouthful of bagel, “Mr. Stark.”</p>
<p>“<em>Is that how you answer your phone? Jesus. You could have at least started with thank you, lordy.</em>”</p>
<p>“Good morning, Mr. Stark,” Stephen corrected, swallowing his mouthful as his eyes lazily fell shut against the onslaught of sunshine from his window. He pushed two fingers into them, still trying to rub the sleep from his consciousness after having slept badly last night—he slept badly most nights, but last night had been the worst yet. Everything was unnervingly dark, without dreams, and plagued by the vastness of his own breathing into stuffy bedroom air. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he enquired smoothly, twiddling the side of an envelope he’d received concerning his late mother’s retirement property in England.</p>
<p>“<em>Well, Stephen, funny story: I just finished up my meetings for the day and I thought we could get together and discuss... us</em>.”</p>
<p>Stephen opened his eyes to stare at his dishevelled appearance in the empty glass cabinets, purposefully adjusting his chair to avoid direct sunlight. “Us?”</p>
<p>Tony sighed loudly into his phone, momentarily causing Stephen to lean away. He brought the phone back to his ear just in time to catch the trail of the fast-speaking inventor say, “<em>remember, -do you? You agreed to be my- uh, you said you’d-</em>”</p>
<p>“Oh!” Stephen sat up suddenly, his heart lurching into his throat. “Of course. I remember. Yes, Mr. Stark.” He stepped off his stool, stretched one leg, and started across to his bedroom to get into something more presentable than the sweats he’d slept in the last few nights. He would detour to the bathroom once he came off the phone, but it felt a little personal to take a call as he showered. “Where would you like to meet?”</p>
<p>“<em>I’m at this little cafe down the street from yours; they do a great gluten-free crumb cake with cinnamon,</em>” Tony said, going on to explain the directions before lurching into the matter at hand, “<em>I’ve written up a contract, so we can make sure we’re both comfortable with this; you’re still a young man, Strange, and I wouldn’t want your reputation to suffer because of me</em>.”</p>
<p>Tony sounded genuinely concerned, with an earnestness settling into his sober tone, as he rebuked Stephen’s small fears without the doctor even needing to mention them. Already, he was finding quiet confidence in this arrangement for how professional Tony was taking it; more and more it sounded closer to business than pleasure—but maybe that’s because it was business. “That’s very thoughtful,” Stephen replied over the quiet line, picking something smart-casual from his drawers; a nice shirt, some thinning trousers. “You took me a bit on the hop, sir. I’ll be about twenty minutes.”</p>
<p>Tony didn’t reply.</p>
<p>Stephen raised an eyebrow and, when he belatedly realised Tony couldn’t see him, said slowly into the phone, “Mr. Stark?”</p>
<p>“<em>Say my name, Stephen. C’mon; it’s not difficult—You’re a smart guy, c’mon...</em>”</p>
<p>Stephen’s heart beat one-two, taking up a quick tempo in his chest from the compliment. Warding off the heat, he snorted. “You’ll have to try harder than pretty words.” With that said, he ended the call; it started up again almost immediately, flashing <strong>Tony</strong> in bold writing across the screen. Stephen chuckled, shoving the phone under his pillow, and quickly went to get washed up.</p>
<p>+</p>
<p>He arrived at the stated cafe eighteen minutes and forty-two seconds later.</p>
<p>“Two minutes to spare,” Tony, in sunglasses and baseball hat, greeted him, holding up his half-full, half-empty cup of deep-smelling coffee. “I thought maybe you’d decided to bail on me.”</p>
<p>Stephen cracked a faint smile, but said nothing in response as he fetched a coffee of his own from the old barista counting bills behind the counter. “Quad shot,” he requested, watching the slightest moment of hesitation before she served it up. He widened his smile at her and asked whether she made them often.</p>
<p>“We get a few,” she responded, wiping down the counter to show Stephen how busy she was. She briefly pointed in Tony’s direction with an off-angled thumb. “That gentleman ordered <em>five</em> shots; only the third I’ve ever done, and I ain’t ever seen ‘em back here after they’ve had ‘em.” She raised her sunken eyes and added tartly, “Dead in a gutter somewhere, I reckon. Anyway, enjoy your drink, sir.”</p>
<p>Stephen took his tall cup and returned to the table Tony was sat at, taking a moment to observe its tucked-away location in regards to the street. Thankfully, this early in the morning, most of the customers were half-asleep students and grungy-looking fellow humans who stumbled in and out sometimes having been served and other times just to use the bathroom. A few smartly-dressed business people were fleetingly in and out, as if by mistake before correcting their course to the <em>Starbucks</em> across the street.</p>
<p>The cafe itself was nice; a little run-down, somewhat forgotten – there was a large dog not far from him, which suggested a lacklustre approach to hygiene but just this once he’d let it slide because the coffee tasted good. Stephen was guilty of ignoring holes in the wall to go to the more established branches. At his usual, a couple of the baristas over time had begun to know his face and prepare his order without even asking for it—the downside of that, was he’d started having to have conversation with them, and sometimes he didn’t want to have conversation with them. And sometimes he wanted a different order, too.</p>
<p>Most awkwardly, he’d gotten one of their phone numbers <em>twice</em> now, and so he was definitely on the lookout for a new place to get his fix of caffeine.</p>
<p>Returning his concentration to Tony, Stephen noticed the wad of paper he’d placed in the middle of the table, facing Stephen. The neurosurgeon leant forwards to read the strong heading: <strong>RELATIONSHIP AGREEMENT</strong>.</p>
<p>“I see you’ve watched the <em>Big Bang Theory</em>.” Stephen gave him a deadpan look.</p>
<p>Tony smiled, but didn’t reply. Behind his sunglasses, Stephen could just make out the glints of his eyes looking across to the window seat. Following Tony’s line of sight, Stephen saw the lonesome-looking couple sitting together, but as far apart from each other mentally, physically and emotionally as possible. “Shame,” Tony murmured, before his attention refocused on Stephen. He patted the document and leant back in his rickety chair. “So, do you want to review the entire document, or are you happy just knowing the bullet points?”</p>
<p>“I’ll take a copy if you have one,” Stephen requested carefully, keeping his brazen personality from leeching into the conversation too quickly; with Tony, he had yet to want to be so ‘off-putting’ as Christine sometimes put it. Now would be no time to start. “Is there anything major you’d like to discuss in-”</p>
<p>“Physically,” Tony interrupted, using his hands to speak as he gestured between them, slipping off his cap. “Where are we standing with that, doc? Hand-holding? Lean-ins? Touching? Kissing for the camera? Sex-”</p>
<p>Stephen coughed, narrowing his eyes at the inventor sat across from him in what could be observed and perceived as eager and attentive. To Stephen, it was obvious Tony was quite sure where he stood and what he wanted, but he was also very clearly not saying it just yet. With that in mind, Stephen took the low road and threw the question back at Tony: “Where would you like it to begin and end? Where would be appropriate? I would doubt we need something so vulgar like a <em>sex tape</em>-”</p>
<p>“Noted,” Tony replied immediately, talking over the ends of Stephen’s sentence. “I’d rather work... from where you’re comfortable, Stephen. I’m used to the press and their demands; I’ve often kissed someone knowing there’ll be a photo of it tomorrow in <em>The Globe</em>...” He downed his sunglasses, finally; his eyes were weary, sleep-deprived and matched up pretty well to Stephen’s own—except in colour, of course.</p>
<p>Although the offer was there in front of him – to scale it down to everything he could cope with... He couldn’t stop thinking about the implausible thrill of Tony Stark’s arm around him, his chapped lips sayings nice things about their ‘relationship’ and then those same lips drawing over Stephen’s, pressing in, the cracks and ridges of their mouths connecting for a few heartbeats—it was all terribly tempting and Stephen had to control the spike of something in his stomach as he sat back into his chair, trying to remain as calm as he wished he actually felt. “So long as nothing ruins my career,” he said flatly, seeing the spark of momentary and passing pain reflecting from Tony’s dark, dark eyes. “This is, after all Mr. Stark, to help you. I understand if there are certain standards that have to be applied to be your – boyfriend.” The word sat heavy on his tongue—it was OK. Of course it was OK; why wouldn’t it be OK? He didn’t need to be nervous about this.</p>
<p>He wasn’t nervous about this.</p>
<p>“Great,” Tony replied, smooth, his eyes sparking with fortunate interest. “Just to be safe, how about we choose a word you can use – and I can use – if it all gets a little much?” His eyebrow and lip quirked at the same time. “A safe word.”</p>
<p>Stephen stared blankly at his expression, at the alluring, tempting arousal of it. “That sounds good,” he agreed slowly, flashing a glance around the establishment as a few more people filed in to have coffee. Looking back, he saw Tony had returned his sunglasses over his eyes and donned his baseball cap. “You know, that doesn’t work.”</p>
<p>“You’d be amazed,” Tony replied, expression looking pinched. He finished the dregs of his coffee. “Hey, d’you want to get out of here – maybe back to your apartment? Probably easier to speak about this-” he jabbed the Relationship Agreement. “-at your place, rather than an open coffee shop.”</p>
<p>Stephen gave another look around, heard the beginning hubbub of noise and language, and then nodded. “I suppose you’re right—I have coffee at home, anyway.” Stephen left his half-finished coffee and made for the door with Tony trailing behind him, keeping a moderate distance.</p>
<p>When they passed the window seat, the couple had broken up; the girl was gone, and the boy was sitting into the seat crying into his palms. Trying not to stare but unable to help it, Stephen got a rotten feeling in his stomach he couldn’t describe. He allowed Tony’s hand to flit over his shoulder and to push him out the door.</p><h6></h6>
<p>Stephen realised only after they’d stepped into his place, the early sunshine and warmth having soaked into Tony’s skin and burnt Stephen’s on the route home, he’d never yet had anyone over. He might have, briefly, had a neighbour at his doorway demanding he stop practicing and a pizza delivery guy step one foot over the threshold to hand Stephen his order while he juggled phone, money and the keys to his bike, but he’d never actually welcomed someone in who wasn’t just coincidental to his life, but an actual part of it. “Welcome,” Stephen dumbly muttered a minute later than he should have, switching on a light they didn’t need and ushering Tony inside. Thankfully, he didn’t have a coat for Stephen to take to place on his non-existent coat hooks.</p>
<p>As soon as he closed the door, Tony removed his sunglasses and placed them, folded, on the side-table beside the doorway along with his car key that, instead of putting in the basket, he hid below it. “Nice place,” he commented, fond disregard in his voice as he detached himself from Stephen’s side to wander the apartment, leaving his baseball hat on the edge of the couch. “Not where I thought you’d live, honestly.”</p>
<p>“No?”</p>
<p>“One of the other buildings, I thought,” Tony confessed, his back to Stephen. “Thought this place was a bit downmarket for you; just reckoned you didn’t want me knowing your building when you had me drop you outside.” He ran a flexed palm over the island’s countertop before moving over to the piano taking pride of place in the open space beside the full-length window.</p>
<p>Stephen placed the bag with the Relationship Agreement on the counter and started the coffee machine, moving without practiced ease to set two cups on the side – his own, and a workman’s white mug he’d had from his parents’ house when they’d had it renovated to be sold all those years ago. Listening to the soft footsteps around his apartment, Stephen tensed when he heard another door being pushed open. His heart leapt into his throat, realising Tony had wandered straight into his bedroom. Leaving the coffee to brew, he practically jogged over to stand, gaping, in the doorway as Tony Stark – the Tony Stark – walked around his bedroom like a homeless man would stumble through a manor he’d just acquired.</p>
<p>(<em>Why is he looking at my bedroom with awe? What is that expression? Why did he come in here?</em>)</p>
<p>One of his hands flit over the unmade bed and Stephen held his breath. The stuffiness of the room was undeniable, but Tony seemed to have barely noticed the mustiness lingering leftover from sleep as he continued wandering—but like clockwork each and every time he came back to the bed, set a hand on it, thought better of it and moved away. “I’m not sleeping well,” Stephen blurted out hoping to save some dignity the longer Tony remained sauntering. “I’m sorry—I usually make my bed.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, uh-huh,” Tony replied like he hadn’t heard. His mind caught up all at once. “Not sleeping well? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>It seemed so unreal, what was happening: two weeks ago, Stephen hadn’t wanted anything to do with Stark Industries or Tony Stark ever again, and now here he was in Stephen’s bedroom, stroking his bedcovers. “Well, I’m taking some recommended time off work-”</p>
<p>“Doctor Palm Tree mentioned that,” Tony interrupted, and then gestured for Stephen to carry on with a non-committal flick of his wrist.</p>
<p>“Palmer,” Stephen corrected, though he knew it was pointless. “I’m used to tiring myself out at work after a long day spent doing what I love, and right now of course I’m off, so....” The sleeping issues had started before that, though; he’d not had a good night’s rest in months—since Tony’s capture, honestly—but he wasn’t about to say that.</p>
<p>“I get it,” Tony replied, nodding along. “I understand. I know what it’s like not to sleep sometimes.” He swept a hand through his hair, untangling it with his fingers. He paused, opened his mouth, and then stopped. Thinking better of whatever else he wanted to say, Tony turned to Stephen and gestured him out of the doorway. Once back into the main apartment area, Tony motioned to the piano and said, “Glad to see you’ve been getting practice in.”</p>
<p>“I’ve had time,” Stephen replied, walking across to the over-brewed coffees. He pushed the kettle to one side, his tea addiction having started back up again in the last week, to focus on making his guest and himself a drink for the discussion. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stephen somehow managed to finish the coffees without spillage and plonked them on the counter.</p>
<p>He’d not noticed Tony sitting at his piano, running his fingers down the keys with off-beat timing. The notes were draft-sounding, new, as if Tony was struggling through a performance of something he’d never tried before—but Stephen couldn’t place the notes, the song itself, or bring anything to his mind which sounded even vaguely similar. It hit him a few moments later, as he’d been about to sit down and look over the Agreement. “You’re a composer,” Stephen said during a slow-sounding rhythm, listening to the rise and fall; a maiden slipping from her tower, the knight arriving too late to save her life. It was a raw image from the music, but it was what Stephen found himself thinking of when Tony continued playing.</p>
<p>“Sometimes,” Tony replied, closing the lid on the piano and standing up. “Not to my own name: Tony Stark writes computer programs, not music.” He heaved himself into one of the chairs, the strong muscles of his arms pulling him up effortlessly. “Tony Stark also writes agreements,” he amended, with a cough, gesturing to the bundle of fixed paper on the countertop.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Stephen responded with a soft note, almost breathy, reaching forwards to flip through the paperwork Tony had meticulously acquired so quickly; he’d so far found no errors in the skim-read he was mentally performing on his jaunt through the pages. “It all looks very good,” Stephen said, warding off the intense stare from the inventor across from him. “I’ll want to read through all of this, you understand?”</p>
<p>“And you won’t agree beforehand; I know your type, Stephen.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, Mr. Stark: I absolutely agree to be your partner for a few important events, outings, and publicity stunts,” Stephen responded immediately, his mouth moving without accord as he read the passage he seamlessly quoted. He paused to turn his attention to the older man, managing a deep smile. “After all, I owe you a debt I can’t fathom repaying with much else.”</p>
<p>“You mean those assholes I took care of?” Tony replied, his voice and attitude blasé and on the edge of unremarked, as though the thought was always there but never quite retrieved; would soon, in hopes, be forgotten. “They weren’t a problem. My guys have taken care of way worse people than that.” He broke off to cough into the crook of his elbow. “I’m just sad I couldn’t do it myself. They were obvious a bother to you, Stephen.”</p>
<p>Stephen couldn’t help chuckling at the attempt of Tony’s own-brand of humour. “You wouldn’t have brought out Iron Man just for my little problem.”</p>
<p>“I would bring Iron Man out to buy you the last carton of milk available in New York,” Tony replied immediately, not hiding the sentiment behind the words despite his deadpan delivery.</p>
<p>Despite looking for the joke, Stephen found nothing but the absolute truth in Tony’s tone. He chose not to dwell on it, and instead opened the Agreement to the very end where the signature pages were. “Let me grab a pen-”</p>
<p>“Use mine,” said Tony, fetching a pen from the few tagged in his breast pocket. He unclipped one, paused, and then took another instead. “Not sure how much ink is left in these,” he muttered, more to himself than to Stephen, taking his time. When the neurosurgeon rose from his chair, Tony put out a bronzed, scar-scattered hand and said, “Hang on.” He plucked a pen from his pocket, the first he’d taken, and handed it to Stephen on a flat palm.</p>
<p>Taking it, feeling the soft grip in his fingers, Stephen swiftly signed his name everywhere Tony pointed to, loftily scribbling without a pause until he noticed, in the slanted lights of his apartment and the come-again sunshine, the personalised writing on the side of the pen. He attempted a glance, a slight move of his finger, but Tony was pointing to another line on another page and Stephen muttered, “Ah, sorry. Must’ve missed it.” Though his voice was uncommitted, he felt a devious thrill settling into a pleasant warmth in his stomach at noticing all the small bullet points relating to those physical things Tony had briefly mentioned.</p>
<p>In spite of everything to have occurred lately regarding the man beside him – the hostage situation, the Iron Man reveal, the gradual and impending approach of many possible court cases (if you believed the papers) – Stephen couldn’t help but feel completely at ease. No reputation of Tony’s bothered Stephen in the way it did most people; in some feral way it made Stephen feel almost safer knowing this man had the ability to dispose of anyone with a single phone call, and had done so – for Stephen.</p>
<p>God. What a <em>thrill</em>.</p>
<p>(<em>What was that I told myself? Do not fall for this? Do not fall for him?</em>)</p>
<p>“Can I go ahead and keep this copy?” asked Tony suddenly, breaking into Stephen’s blundering thoughts. “I’ll send you a copied version – otherwise I’ll have to send you this one again, verify it, have you sign another... It’ll be a whole thing, as my best friend Rhodey likes to say.”</p>
<p>“Oh, of course,” Stephen replied after a moment, twiddling the pen. He turned the document around and pushed it towards Tony who, despite Stephen holding out his borrowed ballpoint, took another from his pocket to begin flourishing his name across the dotted lines. Watching him, curiosity soon got the better of the neurosurgeon, and after a sip of his coffee he asked, “Who did you have write this?”</p>
<p>“I wrote it up myself,” Tony replied, lifting his eyes from the document to look directly at the doctor. His smile was small, gentle and concentrated, and his eyes were unfixed from reality. “Didn’t I mention that?”</p>
<p>Pursing his lips, thinking back, Stephen slowly nodded despite believing differently. “I just didn’t realise you had a law degree.”</p>
<p>“Anyone can write an agreement, Stephen,” Tony responded, a laugh in his tone as he flicked his wrist about the air. “You could write an agreement to give me your virginity, and if I could prove you didn’t I could sue you in a court of law.”</p>
<p>Though his tone was teasing and classically Stark, Stephen blushed seven shades of red at the thought. “I... I think that’s a little...” He wanted to focus on the legality, wanted to speak and speak frankly as he could do in his business life—but the jump in their conversation had him rattled and he drew back into his chair. “I see.”</p>
<p>“It’s just a joke, Doctor Who,” said Tony, his lips perked up and his eyes harbouring the lightness of something said and very much meant, no longer subjectively haunted. “But in case you are actually interested: I downloaded a few templates off the Internet, took a call with my lawyer and had Happy take a look at it before leaving.”</p>
<p>“Happy Hogan?” Stephen enquired, his eyes straying from the Agreement to Tony’s face. “He has a law degree?”</p>
<p>Tony tipped his coffee, a drinker by his hold on the mug, and smiled around the rim. “Nope.”</p><h6></h6>
<p>The causal flavour of the afternoon drew on as Stephen investigated the more dangerous parts of the Agreement: the physicality was definitely... not something he was entirely sure about, yet; he’d gone through a kaleidoscope of emotions about it, from evident arousal to sudden refusal. He’d been drawn in to believe Tony was not a man who liked to touch or be touched, but after just two hours with the man, he realised this was unfounded in the extreme.</p>
<p>His hands flit about Stephen even when there wasn’t a need for them to be anywhere near him, and though Tony apologised for the intrusions, he started following them up with: “We should practice, so everything looks fluid.” In one incident Stephen would no doubt recall later in bed, Tony had gotten up to refresh their coffees and casually lingered his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, and then gently moved it down his arm, pressing warmth over the shirt-covered skin, his fingers coming to dally and dance across the back of the doctor’s hand. Once again, he gave the now infamous, “We should practice; everything has to look fluid.” Except this time he followed it up with, “Like when we play, dear; our fingers over the keys of a piano are... like a trained figure skater over crappy Central Park ice: They make us believe it’s easy. Similarly, we make playing even the hardest sonnets of Beethoven easy—because that’s what we’re trained for.</p>
<p>“Our love has to look like that.”</p>
<p>It took Stephen a few minutes to recover from the wisp of Tony’s breathy accent in his ear, only settling down when his cup was placed on the mat beside him. His lips drew into a strained frown and he looked up, saw the exhausting, dangerous dark of Tony’s eyes, and Stephen swore he could drown in it—would throw himself into their depths and sink into oblivion. “Did you call me- Did you call me <em>dear</em>?”</p>
<p>“Not a fan of nicknames?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or just that one? I’d have thought you went for the classy type of nickname.”</p>
<p>“I just... wasn’t expecting it, is all.”</p>
<p>“So, would you rather I went with <em>sweetcheeks</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.” Stephen paused in his reading the same paragraph for the eighteenth time, rolling his finger across Tony’s ballpoint pen. “Dear is... fine. Dear is fine.” He slowly closed the Agreement and slid it back across to Tony, clearing his throat to bring them back to the matter at hand. “Is there anything else we need to go over today?”</p>
<p>Pursing his lips, Tony replied, “We could practice – y’know – we should make it look easy.” His fingers drummed across the tabletop, seemingly unable to stay still.</p>
<p>Stephen understood the feeling of needing to move, of needing to do something with his fingers, of having a brain constantly in overdrive and seeking—needing stimuli. Getting bored was not an option for a man like Stephen. “What would you like to practice?” he asked carefully, flicking his eyes briefly to Tony’s lips. “Is there anything specific? Need I learn how to... I dunno, walk?”</p>
<p>“You can walk fine,” Tony chuckled, slowly standing from his chair. “We could practice just standing next to each other for one—maybe just moving our arms about one another; small touches and all that.” He grinned. “Couples in the first throws of blind attraction always seem to behave like that.”</p>
<p>“You would know,” Stephen muttered, rising from his chair. He drank the last gulp of his now-cold coffee and set the mug to one side, slipping across to stand beside the diminutive inventor. Standing like a rod, Stephen tried to imagine the clicking and flashing cameras, the noise of the crowds, and the shushing presence of the man at his side. It wasn’t difficult considering Tony was a paparazzi magnet and almost all of those big, overwhelmingly unimportant important events tended to involve him being interviewed for no reason. Stephen never used to watch them, until one day he just did.</p>
<p>Tony started, suddenly, to laugh. Stephen shot him a piercing look. “What?”</p>
<p>“You look so uncomfortable,” said Tony, still chuckling. He slowly slid his arm around Stephen’s waist, laying his hand out flat; his pinkie briefly skimmed the edge of Stephen’s sharp hip. “C’mon, Strange: I’m not gonna bite you – not yet, anyway.”</p>
<p>The conviction in the other’s tone stirred something in the doctor, his mouth going dry from the implication and the <em>possibility</em>. It wasn’t... improbable to suppose the papers and the paps wouldn’t believe something at face value, so convincing them would be the way forward—and what better a way to convince someone of something then with physical proof? A dozen small marks across Stephen’s neck, when he would no doubt soon be on all the tabloids across the world as Tony Stark’s first (known) boyfriend, would not go amiss. He couldn’t imagine the published headlines, but he could imagine the rejected ones with pathetic ease: <em>Stark Claims Ownership, Stark Goes for the Neck</em> and <em>Iron Man Leaves his Mark... on Gay Lover’s Neck!</em></p>
<p>... Actually, he wouldn’t be surprised if those were the published headlines...</p>
<p>Shaking himself out of the patterned thoughts beginning to occupy his headspace, Stephen drew himself back to reality in time to hear his name being said ever-so-gently. “Stephen? Stephen, are you OK? I was joking, y’know—Stephen?”</p>
<p>Easing out of Tony’s slackened grip, Stephen flattened a hand against his forehead and replied, “I got in my head.”</p>
<p>Holding his palms up, Tony said, “I make jokes when I’m stressed.”</p>
<p>“What?” Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Wha-”</p>
<p>“What I said—what I implied—I’m just as nervous as you are, doc; trust me, this is my rep just as much as it is yours.” Pausing, as if he was worried he’d said too much, Tony only continued after the sun dipped behind clouds and left the apartment in warm darkness. “The world’s still not sure of people like you and me.”</p>
<p>Stephen blinked owlishly, marvelling at the quiet intone of Tony’s voice as he acknowledged the hushed fear Stephen had been pushing away since their conversation in the Italian restaurant. His self-confidence in his identity had worn away some years ago, and he’d only just been settling back into his skin; this idea had thrown him for ten and, yes, he’d thought Tony was absolutely unfazed by it from his blasé attitude. It was nice, really, to know both of them were terrified—just, perhaps, in different ways.</p>
<p>“You’re right.” The clouds lifted and brought the sunshine back into his apartment. “It isn’t.” As if a weight had been dropped, Stephen unexpectedly felt more proper, brighter, and happier than he had in months. He fit himself back against Tony’s side and worked up the hidden-away courage in his heart, managing to ask, “Should I wave to people? Like the Queen of England?”</p>
<p>Tony burst out laughing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their ‘practice’ continued on for a couple of hours with a break somewhere along the way, in which Tony commandeered Stephen’s piano and worked the keys like a man deprived of music for years. He sat up on to the stool and cracked his back when Stephen placed down a sandwich (he’d bought gluten-free bread especially), and smiled awkwardly. “Too busy to practice?” Stephen asked.</p>
<p>Conversation with Tony had mellowed out, now, and just talking about piano was enough for Stephen to almost totally drop his guard despite the affairs of his heart. Tony took a bite of the sandwich before answering, “I’m still negotiating that deal for the Tower—I’ve even invited them to the party.” He poked his tongue out the side of his mouth, licking a dollop of mayo off his lip. “I wanna see if I can get them to drop the price a bit because <em>no way</em> am I paying four billion for six storeys. I could <em>build</em> one for cheaper!”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you?” Stephen asked, eyeing the skyline of New York outside his window. He pointed. “In Manhattan, there’s this old clothing store that’s going out of business. It wouldn’t take much to remodel it, or destroy it, and build.” He calculated the maths in his overactive brain. “It’s about 15k a floor; average to 20k just to make sure. It wouldn’t take you much to get a change of use from New York either: You’re Tony Stark, after all.”</p>
<p>Tony stopped chewing, staring openly at Stephen with new-found regard and more than just gradual interest. “How on earth do you know that?”</p>
<p>“I know people in the construction industry,” Stephen briefly explained, settling on his sofa. Tony joined him a few minutes later, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the shitty wooden table Stephen had snagged from a sale in Washington Heights when he was out that way. He’d been meaning to replace it for months now, but he’d just not gotten around to it. “Is there anything else you’d like to practice?”</p>
<p>“Nope,” Tony replied, laughter settling into his rich accent. He still looked interested in their previous conversation, but dropped it when Stephen made no further remarks. “I’m sure it’ll be all right on the night—although, you better let me wine and dine you a few times in some fancy places; we might be able to get the ball rolling a week earlier, so it’s not so much a shock when we arrive at the party.”</p>
<p>“It’s private, yes?” Stephen asked, sitting back into his couch. His heart thumped a little harder when Tony slid closer and automatically draped his arm across his shoulders, drawing Stephen into his side and his worked warmth. Stephen inhaled, the scent of oil and machinery clinging to his nostrils—and something else, too; something natural and woody and altogether very pleasant. Something just – Tony.</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Tony had his phone and was reading his texts, obviously having just received something of some involuntary importance. His fingers casually worked through the tense muscles of Stephen’s shoulder, pressuring the knots, without thinking. “But the press find these things out, and we’ll probably have a few who sneak in. My guys take care of them – not like that, ha – but they’ll always manage to snap a few photos beforehand—honestly? We let ‘em.” He turned his head to Stephen – so close – and then swiftly untangled himself to grab the bottle of water on the table, letting out a breathy, “I won’t be able to let you go all evening.”</p>
<p>Stephen replied, “That’s fine.”</p>
<p>Tony snapped his head around. “Fine?”</p>
<p>“I mean- Sorry. I mean, that’s all right; I understand I’ll need to play up my role as your- as your boyfriend,” Stephen responded, lowering his eyes from the challenge in Tony’s dark eyes, flicking a look from his clasped hands across to Tony’s lap. He stared a little hard, narrowed his eyes, thought he saw the slightest outline of-</p>
<p><em>No. No, no. Bad Stephen</em>. Lifting his eyes to look at Tony, he managed a brief smile and, when it appeared the billionaire wasn’t so forthcoming with a reply, he changed the subject and asked, “Where are you staying?”</p>
<p>“Hotel on Fifth Avenue,” Tony replied immediately, putting sudden distance between them, and stood up. “Speaking of, I have an engagement tonight at some celebrity’s tower, and I want to make sure I’m done speaking before he actually arrives.” Brushing his smart-casual clothes down for invisible lint, Tony added, “I’ve heard he can get a little crazy. Lordy...”</p>
<p>Stephen nodded. Though no names were exchanged, both of them were more than sure who Tony was referring to. Stephen made to stand and help Tony collect the paperwork and his things, passing him his baseball cap. “Don’t forget your pen.”</p>
<p>“Keep it; I have plenty.”</p>
<p>“But isn’t it-”</p>
<p>“<em>Keep it.</em> It suits you,” Tony insisted, walking across to the door. He collected his key from under the bowl, and then slipped his wallet into the same pocket as his phone. “Right, well, I have an empty evening tomorrow. Can I buy you dinner, dear?” He slid his sunglasses into his pocket, not bothering yet to put them on.</p>
<p>Stephen was about to mention his work, when he belatedly realised he still had a few days off. “That would be pleasant, Mr. Stark. What’s expected of me?”</p>
<p>“Wear something a little fancy,” Tony replied immediately, a smile fracturing and downing his guarded expression to something almost calm; the calmest, Stephen thought, he had ever seen the man. “Maybe purple; you’d look good in purple.”</p>
<p>“Thank you?” Stephen responded, walking closer. “I will, then.”</p>
<p>“I’ll copy this and give you your copy tomorrow night.” Tony gestured at the paperwork in his bag. “Gift-wrapped and all; a present for my new boyfriend.”</p>
<p>Stephen cracked a smile at Tony’s words, trying not to feel too jittery by their meaning; he’d need to hear them enough to start believing them for the rouse to work, or else he’d give up the game simply by getting flustered at the mere mention and the thoughts accompanying it—how many of those reporters, and not to mention people, would see them and automatically think about them having sex? With each other? Did people even think like that?</p>
<p>Taking in a breath, Stephen chose to put a pin in those thoughts for now. “Can I walk you to your car?”</p>
<p>“No, don’t worry about it,” Tony responded, his palm up.</p>
<p>Stephen couldn’t help but feel the air was... awkward. Whereas on the couch it had felt charged and excitable; that anything could happen at any moment. Right now, it felt dead and stale and he couldn’t stop the sinking of his heart at the realisation settling into the edges of his mind: of course it was going to be awkward, because it wasn’t real; because, at the end of the day, Tony would drop him off at this awful little apartment and leave; because he’d smile at Stephen while his eyes lingered on other, prettier people. Stephen’s thoughts darkened as they stood there, feeling everything was just a little incomplete.</p>
<p>Tony turned to the door, but paused. “Actually, there’s one thing I really wanted to talk about—because you reacted... not so well earlier...”</p>
<p>“What is it?” asked Stephen, his heart leaping at the chance to have Tony stay a little longer despite his growing reservations for the heartbreak he would be experiencing from being so physically and mentally close to another person. He’d need to confine those feelings, though; tape them down somehow and keep them locked away; he’d need some way to tell himself it wasn’t real in the heat of every moment when it felt too real—oh, speaking of: they’d forgotten to agree on that ‘safe word’ concept Tony mentioned. He’d bring it up tomorrow, maybe; or the day after, perhaps.</p>
<p>“Stephen,” Tony said, breaking the doctor from his reverie. “Are you all right with us kissing?”</p>
<p>“Kissing?” Stephen responded, his voice rising at the end. “Uh, yes? Sure? I mean- I mean, what do you mean? Kissing?”</p>
<p>“Calm down, piano man. Are you OK with kissing – yes or no?” Tony tilted his head up just slightly, even though their height difference was minimal. “I’m not saying it’ll happen often, but I just want to make sure you’re OK with it.”</p>
<p>“I’m, I’m.” Stephen swallowed. “I’m fine with it. Yes.” He’d had kisses before, been kissed—what was the big deal? He’d seen photos of Tony with his tongue down someone’s throat during his MIT days. They’d probably not have to go that far, so... He could do a few kisses on the cheek, a peck on the lips. “Uh-”</p>
<p>“Shall we have a goodbye kiss, then?” Tony asked, pushing it, but keeping his voice careful and precise. “To practice?”</p>
<p>Stephen blinked a few times, and then said, “That’s probably a good idea. Practice for when it matters, yes.” His eyes flicked down to stare, briefly, at Tony’s pinched lips. “Practice pretend,” he muttered again, reminding himself it wasn’t real; that this kiss would be for cameras and other people. It wasn’t actually for him.</p>
<p>Not that he wanted it to be. (<em>Do not fall for him. Do not fall for him. Do not fall for him.</em>)</p>
<p>Tony stepped forwards and drew his arms around Stephen’s neck, pulling them together—and then it was so quick, so harmless; a touch of the lips, and they drew back. Stephen’s eyes fluttered open from having fallen shut, about to touch his lips for the feather of the kiss, when Tony muttered, “That won’t do.” A moment later, a slight tilt of the head, and they were kissing again.</p>
<p>Stephen’s eyes fell closed as Tony’s arms drew around him and pulled them together more forcefully, and he happily surrendered into the false affection, knowing all too soon it would end and Tony would leave and—Ugh, why couldn’t he just enjoy the moment? Live in it? Pretend? Stephen opened his eyes, about to draw back so he could take a breath, when he felt the slightest pressure against his lips and, with automatic excitement, opened them to allow Tony to deepen the kiss.</p>
<p>A jolt of arousal flipped his stomach upside down and he had to contain the hitch of his breath as Tony’s hand slid up to hold his neck, tangling his fingers in the loose curls of Stephen’s hair. All too soon, Tony pulled back, wiping away the line of saliva connecting them with a rough chuckle from deep in his throat. “Yeah, I think we’re good there,” Tony managed, his breathing heavy and tempered by an underlying heat. “Oh, Lordy.”</p>
<p><em>Take me to bed</em>, Stephen nearly blurted, but he was quick to remove that thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d somehow stumbled into this silliness; this arousal; this something he felt for Tony Stark and, with a strike of fear, he knew it wouldn’t be the last. “Good,” he said, swallowing. He gestured at the doorway, so suddenly needing the billionaire out of his apartment. “You’ll ring tomorrow, then?”</p>
<p>“I will,” Tony replied, voice laden with unspoken things as his eyes slid across Stephen’s wiry body, coming to land on his lips against. He turned suddenly to the door and flicked the lock about, managing to undo it without help—not that Stephen felt he was currently capable of giving any help; just making his legs move proved difficult.</p>
<p>“Are you sure you don’t want your pen?” Stephen asked rather dumbly when Tony reached the elevator.</p>
<p>Tony turned, smirked, and replied, “Better with you, I assure you. Keep it handy; you never know when you need a pen in your line of work, Doctor Strange.” With that, giving a wave, Tony entered the elevator.</p>
<p>Stephen saw him slip on his sunglasses and cap before the doors closed with a soft bite, announcing Tony’s leaving. Stephen retreated back into his apartment. He stood there, staring at his surroundings, before he made himself walk across to the kitchen island where he picked up Tony’s pen, finally, to read the personalised inscription along the side.</p>
<p><em>Property of Tony Stark</em>.</p>
<p>Stephen dropped it against the counter, shaking, his jaw falling open as his head ran though the connotations of the day, and he lifted a hand to feel his chapped lips. Tossing a glance to the clock – he had time – Stephen shot into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Quick word down here, too, sorry: with the general direction I'm taking the story, I'm thinking I might have to bump up the rating, but I'd like to hear from you guys whether you want actual sexual scenes, or just heavily implied scenes w/ a couple of discussions.<br/>They would be relevant to the story, but I can work around them, so please share your thoughts in the comments.</p>
<p>Thank you for sticking with me !</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Technically</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“They didn’t ask,” Stephen eventually said, jaw going taut from the memories. “They never asked. They told.”</p>
  <p>Tony raised his eyes from the floor. “... They is...” He crested the couch, pressed his body into it, bent down to stare into Stephen’s face. “They is <em>plural</em>, isn’t it? Those men...”</p>
  <p>Stephen swallowed, holding his head high. He stared at Tony from the corner of his eye, and gave a single, brief nod.<br/></p>
</blockquote>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hiya!<br/>Well, votes in and votes counted--The rating has gone up! I'm actually really happy about this, as it means I can tell the story the way I've wanted to from the beginning. I don't think I've mentioned before, but I do have Piano Man plotted out in general terms, and now I can fully expand those!<br/>Also, please heed the tags in this chapter: There is a conversation about abuse, some non-consensual touching, and some brief, indirect references to painkiller addiction.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6></h6><p>Stephen was what you might call <em>an absolute mess</em>. When he received the call from Tony telling him what time to be ready, he barely managed to stutter out a confirmation for the evening before taking himself off for his second shower of the day, and the fourth since having the... <em>nifty</em> man in his apartment (hygiene, hygiene, <em>hygiene</em>).</p><p>He practically threw himself into his wardrobe and, after a tense search, picked out something a little brazen from his college clubbing days in the UK. Thankfully, it still fit. Glancing in the mirror as he did up the buttons, he would happily admit he was looking rather good and, ordinarily, the ‘good’ sentiment would be enough for him should he be going out for something other than work or business related—but it wouldn’t be enough for Tony Stark or, for that matter, Tony Stark’s <em>boyfriend</em>: Stephen knew he needed to look better than just ‘good’. He sucked in his lips, threw the button-up off and searched for something else – something a little scandalous, a little closer to the edge...</p><p>Stephen forced down the smile when his fingers touched the soft fabric, pressing a bitten nail against the shoulder of the shirt and pulling it out from its folded state beneath the rest of his clothes. Trying it on, fixing the collar, Stephen nodded to himself in the mirror and sauntered out into the last rays of natural light cascading through his windows and lightening the black boards of his floor, stepping briefly into puddles of sunshine from the broken skyline of New York. Touching his shirt, Stephen confirmed his choice and breathed a sigh of relief, before fetching his coat and laying it over the back of the chair, ready for when Tony arrived.</p><p>The well-mentioned shirt was, as Tony requested, purple. It hugged his body tightly and showed off his subtle curves, highlighting the arch of his neck. Stephen settled at the piano, his arm on the lid, and waited. When the light outside dipped below the skyscrapers, he drummed out a high-tempo, high-nerves version of <em>Hallelujah</em>, finishing just in time to hear the loud rapping at his door.</p><p>“I knew you’d look good in purple,” Tony whistled instead of greeting him, pulling down the edge of his sunglasses to look at Stephen in the crested glow of his apartment, his eyes roaming across Stephen’s flat front. Licking along the length of his lip, Tony spoke through the veil of tension around them, “Are you hungry, doc? I got us a reservation at <em>Eleven Madison Park</em>.”</p><p>+</p><p>Until he was right outside, Stephen didn’t realise Tony meant <em>THE Eleven Madison Park</em>. He felt stupid by the realisation as he walked inside with Tony, raising his chin from its submissive slump against his neck. “Don’t you have to book a month in advance?” Stephen asked, a little weary, flicking his eyes around the rich-looking restaurant.</p><p>“When you’re Tony Stark? No,” Tony replied with affluent abandon, stepping casually up to the desk to request their table. They were seated in moments, discretely visible to anyone who actually looked—which, of course, they did. As their menus were delivered and they were offered wine and water, Stephen thought blearily on how Tony had managed to secure their table: even though the place hardly needed to draw in more crowds, it never hurt to have the famous Tony Stark on display to show off to prospective customers the sort of people it served.</p><p>After all, a place good enough for Tony Stark must be good enough for Granny’s birthday treat, or fussy lil’ Aunt Rebecca’s confirmation party.</p><p>At Tony’s pressing insistence, Stephen indulged himself enough to not feel he’d overeaten, even tackling a wealthy dessert when the older man pushed the menu across with casual doggedness in his drawl.</p><p><em>Casual</em>. Stephen wasn’t sure about that word. It was slowly consuming him and this false ‘relationship’. Of course, he was under no illusion in that sense: the relationship was casual because it wasn’t real, but... But everything about Tony Stark was, in its own way, casual: his dress, his humour, his nitpick flirting.</p><p>Was that how the rich lived? Was everything casual? Or was that just the mindset? The unhurried life wealth and privilege brought you? The rich didn’t worry about taking heed of the complications suffered by everyone else. Stephen thought he understood the easy life to a point, but obviously his middle-class upbringing of holidays spent skiing in Switzerland, multi-musical pursuits and private, paid-up education in two separate countries was still worlds away from the <em>casual</em> way of life Tony knew with his money, his fame and his company.</p><p>Except, as Stephen began to deduct more thoroughly from his ever-expanding knowledge of Tony Stark, there were elements to the man that definitely couldn’t be called casual—but they were hidden in small, intricate details and short, unexplained sentences. He was a man possessed. If there was a more fitting description, Stephen hadn’t found it yet, and it was difficult to think of one when Tony was watching him (not <em>looking at</em> him, but <em>watching</em> him) consume the small, elegant piece of New York cheesecake with an almond and espresso-infused ice cream on the side. It was unnerving, the way he stared. His eyes looked...</p><p>Haunted.</p><p>That was it. Stephen bit into his ice cream and shivered, caught off guard by the presence of far-off concern in Tony’s eyes—he was thinking, the doctor assumed, of something else; something pressuring and different and difficult if the ghosts behind his eyes were anything to go by.</p><p>Stephen wanted to ask about it; wanted to understand it; wanted to take it-, to take Tony apart and put him back together again. Stephen knew he could find someone to prescribe something if lack of sleep was an issue – he could get the best names in medicine for Tony, if only he knew what he was thinking and needing. He debated asking but, as soon as the look had appeared, it vanished and Tony was back to staring at Stephen with seeking, hungry matte-black eyes.</p><p><em>I’ve never seen a rich man look so hungry before</em>, thought Stephen, the quote slipping easily through his subconscious from a book he’d read some time in the winter about a devil, an angel, and everything in between. <em>I wonder</em>, Stephen continued to think, as Tony ordered them coffee and chatted superficially with the young woman who’d served them through the evening, <em>I wonder, Tony Stark, what it would take to satisfy that hunger</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Halfway through their after-dinner drinks, Stephen saw them—the lines—the elaborate pattern chasing itself down Tony’s neck. He leant forwards a little. “What’s wrong?” he asked, the doctor in him running through scenarios and possibilities—but he couldn’t think of anything medically-known. “With your neck, I mean?”</p><p>“My neck?” Tony touched the lines directly, and Stephen was handed proof he was aware of them. “Oh, just some road rash or... something like that. I’m good.” He picked up his coffee and drained it. “I’m OK, Stephen.”</p><p>Stephen didn’t push, even though he desperately wanted to, and finished his own coffee moments later.</p><p>+</p><p>Stephen, for all his high-functioning intelligence, couldn’t figure out what odd state Tony had fallen into since yesterday. It was very clear the man was thinking much harder on so many other things than just their fake-date, and it became all the more suffocating as the dinner had drifted on, nearly without a word spoken between them except for the issue of Tony’s skin.</p><p>When they stood to leave, Tony approached and thanked the staff without any of his usual theatrics or posing. The staff didn’t seem to mind; moreover, they just looked between Tony and Stephen and smiled with comforting realisation, as if they’d witnessed something special and private—a quiet dinner-date, a casual time shared between lovers without the expanse of the world following them.</p><p>It helped, probably, when Tony’s arm slipped around Stephen’s waist and drew him closer with automatic ease, fingers spidering over his hip, and completed the payment of the expensive evening without batting an eyelid.</p><p>Should Stephen have thanked him? In front of them? Should he have leant forwards slightly and pressed his lips to Tony’s cheek? His jaw? His temple? Was that something couples did? Stephen pinned a mental reminder he needed to watch more closely the couples in the hospital and on the streets; he’d never had a need to before, but now he had to learn how to appropriately act in these situations. He had to play another role than just the good doctor, the private pianist, and the content citizen.</p><p>That’s fine. He can learn how to play the boyfriend of Tony Stark.</p><p>Stephen thanked the staff for the food on leaving, allowing Tony to lead them into the swelling night air of summer. After three glasses of fruity wine, Stephen could feel himself getting mellower. His steps dragged a little, and he couldn’t rightly work out whether he wanted to sleep or be slept with. He’d definitely not experienced something like that before or, if he had, not for many years.</p><p>Blissed, it took Stephen a few moments to feel Tony’s lips lingering on the corner of his. He turned his head to return the soft affection, but Tony’s mouth was gone, as was his arm. It took Stephen another moment, the alcohol having hit all at once, to realise the inventor was leaning against the steady body of his Audi S8 instead of the unsteady body of Stephen.</p><p>“Shall I drop you off at your place, or d’you want to come back to my hotel?” Tony asked brazenly, his voice masked with indecisive thought, but not alcoholic unawareness. He snapped out of it two minutes later, when they were sitting in the car, and he started to laugh, “Sorry! I got ahead of myself there. I’ll drop you off at your place.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Stephen replied, blushing in the pencilled-in darkness of New York’s streets – either from the alcohol, or something else. Stephen wasn’t sure he cared to think about it just yet.</p>
<h6></h6><p>Stephen expected the evening to end outside his apartment bloc but, citing his swaying movements from earlier, Tony drove around the side, parked up, and said he’d walk him in. Getting into the elevator beside Tony, Stephen couldn’t help but feel slightly warm – and that certainly wasn’t just because of the wine. His mouth turned downwards at the consideration, and he blew out a long breath to settle his fraying nerves.</p><p>His dislodgment from a life of partial solitude was wrecking havoc with his ability to think, and Stephen didn’t foresee it getting better any time soon. He slumped against the mirror, lowering his head, and said, “It’s been a lovely evening.”</p><p>“I’m sorry it has to end so soon,” Tony replied, trademark snark loosening his tone. He’d decidedly cheered up since they’d left the restaurant and driven his car from the New York highs of Manhattan to the New York averages of Queens, moving consistently and constantly through the traffic in what Stephen thought might be an unconscious tick of needing to move, of needing the stimuli to continue going forward instead of picking a lane and staying in it.</p><p>“It does, doesn’t it,” Stephen muttered, unsure of his word choice and the meaning behind them, shifting a glance to Tony’s sturdy, compact frame leaning against the other side of the elevator. He caught his eye and they stared at one another through the fog of indecision, the <em>casual</em> distance between them acting more like a riptide.</p><p>“It does have to end,” Tony replied, smartly-curious by the height of his accent. “I think.”</p><p>Stephen raised an eyebrow. “You think a lot, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>Tony’s eyes darkened with almost immediate effect and his lips shortened from their long slanting smile into a scowl. “For God’s sake, Stephen,” the billionaire bit out, his fingers curling around the bar of the elevator to keep himself from doing anything brash. “Why won’t you call me Tony?”</p><p>“I don’t-”</p><p>“Uh-uh! It’s getting ridiculous, now,” Tony continued, raising a hand to show Stephen his open palm, as he fixed his voice for a debate. “Seriously—I call you all sorts of things, and all I get in response is ‘Mr. Stark’ – I don’t even get <em>Anthony, for Christ’s sake. Anthony</em>. God. I would get it, if you were a- were a kid tryna be respectful but we’re adults, Stephen! In a relationship!”</p><p>Stephen jolted at the turn of Tony’s voice, the unsubtle array of anger splitting the congested words into their own sentences violently. He raised his head, shying back at the subversive irritation blanketing the hunger in Tony’s eyes. “Technically,” Stephen started, realising too late it really wasn’t what he should pick on. “We aren’t in a relationship.” He saw it, the resentment, goaded by breakable sadness filtering through Tony’s entire being, but still Stephen muttered the finishing remark to his sentence. “Mr. Stark.”</p><p>It happened fast. Tony threw himself across the elevator and into Stephen, shoving him against the mirror’s barrier and taking him in a cruel, pressuring hold to his wrists. “Say it again, Stephen,” Tony prompted, cold and obvious in his intent for the tension between them. “Go on; say it and we’ll see what happens.”</p><p>Stephen clamped his mouth shut and visibly swallowed, looking between the arisen starvation in Tony’s eyes to the callous twitch of his lips. The neurosurgeon inhaled, contemplating it, and shook his head against the smooth surface of the mirror behind him.</p><p>“Oh, I get it,” Tony whispered, cutting off his damp snicker to add, “Perfect Stephen Strange – <em>Doctor Stephen Strange</em> – doesn’t want this to get messy in public, does he? What was it he asked me for? <em>Not</em> to ruin his reputation?” Pushing away from the neurosurgeon, Tony turned his head to the elevator door as it dinged and welcomed them on to Stephen’s floor. “Not to worry, I keep my promises. I won’t ruin your reputation, doctor.”</p><p>Eagerness filtered down through Stephen’s spine as he watched Tony step smoothly into his media persona, and Stephen saw it, saw the essential <em>want</em> of his character for everything that wasn’t his, to become his, presenting with every demanding, purposeful step into the hallway of apartments. Tony paused, glanced over his shoulder, the rich colour of his eyes off-balance and matte, as he asked with false politeness, “Are you coming?”</p><p>Stephen followed him, breathing deliberately, and took out his key. Driving it into the lock, turning it, he stopped to consider exactly thirty-six options of what could become of him, and then steadily opened his door. Walking in first, removing his coat, switching on the lights, he heard Tony unceremonious drop his keys into the bowl and kick the door shut behind him.</p><p>“I won’t ruin your reputation, doctor,” Tony repeated, steely and even. His steps across the black floorboards echoed in the otherwise empty apartment, the gradual stretch of time pealing like the whine of a violin in Stephen’s ears when, finally, he felt Tony behind him pressing sharp fingers into his hips, and the pointed note of silence came to an end with the billionaire’s whisper against the curl of his ear, “I’ll ruin <em>you</em>. I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”</p><p>Nervous arousal shot straight into Stephen at the fissure of Tony’s voice, as he tore through every fortification of Stephen’s walls to the bare structure. He froze under the drag of hands turning him, and shivered when chapped, wine-ghosted lips pushed shallowly on to his. They lingered, gentled, before pressing in again, loosening when the kiss wasn’t returned. “Stephen?” Tony asked, his naked, assertive pleasure withdrawing from the bite of his voice.</p><p><em>I’ll ruin you</em>.</p><p>Stephen swallowed around his heavy tongue, his lips quivering from the phantom weight of Tony’s mouth against them. The world around him dinned, and he shuddered from the mounted heaviness of Tony’s arms looping around his waist, keeping him in some semblance of balance. “Hold on.” Stephen heard through the steam in his ears, and he might have found some reason to reply to that, might have actually muttered something, but everything was short-circuiting and he couldn’t work out whether he was aroused or distressed or some frightening concept of the two fusing into one.</p><p><em>I’ll ruin you for anyone else</em>.</p><p>+</p><p>The mist around him lifted with the abated promises of a headache, and Stephen raised his head from the couch cushions to the sound of the kettle screaming bloody murder. Blinking from his trance, he looked over the back of the couch and towards his kitchenette where Tony was splashing boiling water into mugs, moving around the space like a minor storm as he murmured, “Milk, milk, milk...”</p><p>“Fridge. In the door,” Stephen supplied, raising a hand to his head.</p><p>“Honey?” Tony called.</p><p>Stephen’s drunk head played a nasty trick. “Yes?”</p><p>“No- I mean, <em>yes</em>, but, uh—Where do you keep the honey?”</p><p>“... Oh. On the shelf,” Stephen replied, his stomach turning with a queasy rumble as he ventured to sit up properly and take in some deep, persuading breaths. He heard Tony incessantly stumble from one corner of the kitchenette to the other, opening and closing cabinets. “The island,” Stephen clarified, each step drumming into his subconscious. “Island shelf.”</p><p>Tony responded back haughtily, “Oh, yeah. Now, I see it.” He fetched it, obvious by the clinking of jams and jars, and uncapped it accordingly, retrieving a spoon to stir the drink.</p><p>His steps grew quieter on the floorboards, especially when he rounded the couch and, very carefully, placed the drinks on the tatty old wooden table in front of them. The silence rang out for a few seconds, and then Tony asked another of his infamous questions, “Where do you keep the headache tablets, doc?”</p><p>“I don’t have any,” Stephen replied, shoving his head into his hands and trying to gage how long it would take to pass. He’d need to sleep on it, probably, what with the alcohol and the- the-</p><p>“You don’t have any?” Tony repeated back slowly, beginning to wander through Stephen’s apartment like it wasn’t an invasion of privacy. “Are you sure? No extra anywhere?”</p><p>Stephen nodded, his head pounding with the motion. He tensed when Tony’s hand settled on his shoulder, inhaling sharply from the grounding weight, and not quite understanding whether he liked it there, wanted it there, or hated the fact he was being touched for no reason other than soiled comfort. “I don’t-” Stephen swallowed. “It’s not a good thing for me.”</p><p>Tony didn’t press – a wonderment of itself – and instead walked around to settle on the other end of the couch, away from Stephen, with his hand between them as an open, but not overwhelming invitation. He gestured towards the drinks, reaching to take his own instant coffee. “I made you tea: Chamomile with milk and honey.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Stephen replied, uncurling from his crumbled posture, and he stared at his cup. Worthwhile movement felt lost on him, and he just gently reached with no hope of taking, as if hoping by some fluke it would summon itself to his hand.</p><p>Admittedly, it did – just not in the way Stephen would have thought. Tony pressed the cup into his hand, using nimble fingers to close Stephen’s grip, adjusting it carefully. “Sorry,” Tony murmured, the sound feeble and uncommitted, playing at apologising for more than one thing and failing badly. “I mean—sorry—no, I...” He drew in a breath, re-correcting Stephen’s hold for the third time.</p><p>It struck Stephen how the movements weren’t unfamiliar; the gentle repositioning of his fingers around the cup were done with the same, if somewhat doubted confidence Tony applied when they were at the piano. The warmth radiating from Tony’s palm was pleasant, although clammy, and forgot itself when pressing flush to the back of Stephen’s hand.</p><p>“I’m not good at words in situations like this,” Tony admitted, raising his eyes from where they were studying Stephen’s hands, cherishing their softness, the plump of the joints, the arch they made in holding the cup. “But neither are you.”</p><p>Stephen dropped his head forwards, feeling the glower from the older man’s eyes, and flinched slightly when fingers drifted beneath his chin and pushed it up. “I don’t understand,” Stephen replied simply, honestly, and saw the casual passing of darkness through Tony’s eyes. It vanished almost immediately, but he still saw it. “What you did, then. There were no cameras.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t do that in front of cameras,” Tony responded instantly, snorting. He clammed up after his show of fragile buoyancy, stuttering out, “I... I don’t know. I just got- I’m just- I, I’m...”</p><p>Stephen pressed his lips into a line, taking a sip of his tea. “I want to understand what happened-”</p><p>“And I want to understand why you won’t call me Tony!”</p><p>“Is that all it is?” Stephen asked, finding his self-confidence as his walls begin to rebuild, his pillars rounded out and spread, growing higher than they had since his young years. He shoved his cup onto the table, freeing his hands to speak with gestures. “The fact I call you Mr. Stark?”</p><p>“No! Yes?” Tony drew away, his eyes distancing. He streaked a hand through his hair. “It’s...” He shut his mouth, slanted it, flicked his head to the side and said, “Hm. I’m just- It’s- Everyone calls me Tony—and I mean everyone. Pepper, Happy, random flings, the media—it’s always been Tony, and then you come in here—you come sauntering into my life—and start addressing me as Mr. Stark and...” He pressed a clenched fist to his mouth, shaking his head. “And I’m just here, like – why you? Why you? No one else does it, <em>except you</em>.”</p><p>The ‘And I don’t like it’ was left unsaid, but Stephen heard it all the same.</p><p>“And you just- even when I—Ahh!” Tony was even more forceful with his mug, practically slamming it against the old table and making it wobble on unsteady, bug-bitten legs. “I ask you—I say to you—<em>call me Tony</em>—and you refuse to! It just... I don’t get it—I don’t get why you’re different, Stephen—I don’t understand why I, I’m having <em>this</em> reaction...” Slicking back his hair in a nervous manner, inhaling and exhaling deeply, Tony continued rambling, “You just—you bring it out in me, an-and we’re doing this- this dating thing and-”</p><p>“We’re not dating,” Stephen interrupted, having seen no need to say anything up to now, but he wasn’t about to let Tony do that; to get away with that false promise, to give him something as brittle and breakable as hope. “We have an agreement—a contract.” He bit down on his lip, watching for the reaction, and noting with abandoned humour how easily it was to break the curse Tony tricked himself into having control of; the calm exterior and docile easiness drew back and exposed the raw wounds denting his armour.</p><p>“And once that’s up,” continued Stephen, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I’m gone, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>‘When you play with fire, you get burned.’ The proverb was something Stephen understood, but often dismissed. Surely there must be times when playing with fire was OK? What about when it was cold? When you were freezing? When you needed something to keep you alive? What if all you had to keep you warm, was that fire? The fire everyone said not to touch? Not to handle, for fear of being burnt?</p><p>Maybe, deep down inside, Stephen wanted to know what the fire felt like. Maybe he wanted to be burned—to feel it, to feel something other than the unending spiral life had put him in. And maybe, maybe, this was his chance.</p><p>Stephen looked across the couch and met Tony’s eyes, a smokescreen smeared against their deep brown and turning them a charcoal black. Despite his beating heart, his shouting head, his aching inability to properly think, Stephen ignored every instinct in his pray heart and sat there, poised, against the arm of his couch, watching every small movement and attempting to understand that look, that creeping darkness, the exposed livewire that was Tony Stark.</p><p>“Say that again.” Tony inhaled, obviously trying to stay calm, despite the visible arousal from the possible, the likelihood he would sooner lose Stephen than gain him. “I goddamn dare you, Stephen.”</p><p>“Once the contract’s up,” Stephen said, heightening the edge of his accent, lengthening it to the faux British aristocratic hitch he’d played with. “I’m gone, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>Tony stood up from the couch and moved with the speed of a tidal wave, enrapturing Stephen with the grace of his dancer background, and then capturing him. One strong, callused hand grasped Stephen’s slender right wrist and pushed it back against the cushion. His left was swiftly taken as well, held against the arm of the couch in a grip unlike anything Stephen had ever felt. Instead of the innate panic he’d expected, a wave of arousal spread downwards, bringing his white skin out in a bloom of reds and pinks, roses and carnations.</p><p>But then their lips connected, and Stephen felt them—strong, possessive, a fixture—and it reminded him, immediately, how much he hated kissing; the pressure, the force, the heat, and how it gave a false premise of something he couldn’t commit to here. The kiss overwhelmed every one of his senses and he groaned, imitating some inadequate concept of what he hoped sounded at least close to pleasure. He’d done this, brought this on, pulled and snipped at Tony’s strings—but this wasn’t meant to happen; this kiss was the problem the first time, had been the reason he’d frozen up. He couldn’t do that—not this intimately, and not with this man and his dallying shadows.</p><p>Tony must have sensed something, as he pulled back and slackened his grip, weakening his hold almost completely. “Stephen?” The hunger was still there, in his features and his eyes, but the intensity of it was gone.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Stephen replied, batting away one of Tony’s hands so he could wipe his mouth. He inhaled, catching Tony’s smell on him – the machinery, the oil, the woodiness – and then breathed out. “I’m OK.”</p><p>“No, you aren’t.” Tony stood up, his palms out as if to coax a wild animal—except they were shaking, flailing, and he looked unsure exactly what to do with them. “But you’re talking this time, so that’s a start...” Breathing out, dropping his hands, Tony muttered, “God, you’re frustrating.”</p><p>“I am,” Stephen admitted, fixing his jaw. “And you’re dangerous.”</p><p>“I’m a cuddly bear when you get to know me,” Tony replied in fragile jest, the subtleties of humour sticking in his preoccupied drawl. “Anyway—I think I’m beginning to understand what’s going wrong.”</p><p>Stephen raised his eyebrows, unconvinced.</p><p>“You don’t like kissing,” Tony responded, his brow furrowed. “But- but here’s what I don’t get. We kissed... yesterday, as a practice for the cameras, and you didn’t get...” He gestured. “Like this.”</p><p>Stephen tensed. “You’re right,” he replied, nodding. “I hate kissing—”</p><p>“But yesterday-”</p><p>“You can prepare yourself for the things you hate; everyone does that sometimes,” Stephen interrupted, watching for Tony’s reaction. Not receiving one, Stephen placated himself with a nervous beat against his thigh, attempting to bring words to the surface. “And I-... I’m just not good with... physicality, especially for an intimate thing like kissing. I shut down.”</p><p>“You’re scared?” Tony replied, but it sounded like a question with the highlights of his accent straining to the furthest edge. “Have you...” He cleared his throat, dusting his hands down his jeans. “Have you had a bad experience?”</p><p>“I don’t have any experience.” Stephen turned, ten voices debating with one another inside of his head. “Of the type you’re insinuating, anyway. I’ve had relationships.”</p><p>Tony crossed his arms, himself looking unconvinced now. He visibly chewed his lip before coming out with it, “... Physical relationships?”</p><p>Stephen paused before he answered, collecting his hands in his lap. “Unwillingly.” The word hung in solitude.</p><p>“Shit.” Tony dropped his arms to his sides, starting to pace the room. “And I... Ah, shit! Stephen—Goddammit—I mean, it’s not you—but you, you should have—Ahh... Shit, shit, shit, <em>shit</em>!”</p><p>“My new neighbours have a small child,” Stephen interrupted, causing Tony to stop walking momentarily as confusion coloured his face in tones of grey. “I think it’s best you curb your language, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>“Did they- did he ask you to do that?” Tony asked, realisation pulsing through his lightened eyes. “Did he ask you- Oh, God, Stephen, for—For God’s sake, Stephen. Did he <em>ask you</em> to call them...”</p><p>Stephen stared at him, eyes shadowed, his throat twisting up with words unsaid; words never spoken to another human. He’d spent his tears long ago, and though reckless anger sometimes cropped up, he tried not to let it get ingrained in him, tried not to let the feeling burrow beneath his skin for fear of an infection. Careful, he’d always thought it best to be when the subject arose in his personal life, work life or private life—careful, or else they’d ask questions; careful, or else they’d think things; careful, or else his entire recreation of himself would be wasted years.</p><p>Stephen remembered just once getting involved in a conversation about it, brief and said over loud blasts of music and even louder bursts of colour, as he’d navigated the British clubbing scene. The man had been placid, quaint, and understandable despite half-give and half-heard sentences. Stephen had marvelled at his ability to place logic above the heated emotions such events usually brought out in people, and though the conversation was lost to the drunken moments of his youth, he remembered exactly one thing in vivid detail:</p><p>“<em>Us broken people have a way of finding one another. It’s in the eyes, the hands, the way they think. How they hold ‘emselves an’ smile—I tell ya, boy, I tell ya—the best smiles are the ones of the broken, ‘cuz they’ve seen some shit and they’re still grinnin’, like!</em>”</p><p>“They didn’t ask,” Stephen eventually said, jaw going taut from the memories. “They never asked. They told.”</p><p>Tony raised his eyes from the floor. “... They is...” He crested the couch, pressed his body into it, bent down to stare into Stephen’s face. “They is <em>plural</em>, isn’t it? Those men...”</p><p>Stephen swallowed, holding his head high. He stared at Tony from the corner of his eye, and gave a single, brief nod.</p><p>“Oh, Lordy.” Exhaustion split the waver of Tony’s voice and he pushed himself up, turning around to sit and lean on the back of the couch instead. One hand dug into the cushions, while the other moved up to press against his head, digging the heel against the bridge of his nose before smoothing it into his left eye, and then repeating with the right. Stephen watched the movements with idle curiosity, plagued by the seconds of disillusion he felt clinging to the edges of his thoughts.</p><p>Tony was upset, that much was obvious, but was he upset for Stephen? Upset at himself? Upset at having disposed of those men in some way that was questionably humane? The idea drew a chuckle from Stephen, causing Tony to flinch. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“Am I-” Tony replied, blinking from his depressive state. “Am I all right? Stephen, honey, I think that’s my line.”</p><p>“Not your ‘honey’.” Stephen’s accent caught on the word, as he phrased it closer to the endearing, albeit sad tone Tony used. “Technically.”</p><p>Tony stared at him, his dark eyes harbouring something close to guilt – as close to guilt as someone like Tony got; it looked eagerly embarrassed, if anything, masquerading as guilt to the casual observer of which Stephen was definitely not. “Technically,” Tony repeated, inhaling. “Yeah—but-”</p><p>“Oh, my dear Mr. Stark,” Stephen interrupted smoothly, and Tony clamped his mouth shut. “How right I am in the assumption of your character.”</p><p>Dumbfounded, and a little offended at Stephen’s wordiness, Tony continued on, “But... We also, Dr. Strange, <em>technically</em>, have a contract.”</p><p>“Of which I am in full agreement with,” Stephen replied, patting his knees.</p><p>“And in said contract.” Tony’s eyes shone like dimes. “You are my partner.”</p><p>“Boyfriend.” Stephen snorted.</p><p>Tony wrinkled his nose. “Juvenile phrasing.” He pyramided his fingers, licked his lips, “SO.”</p><p>Oh, the game was afoot. “Lover,” Stephen corrected with a shit-eating grin.</p><p>Heat rose into Tony’s cheeks, and a gleam of something lit up his eyes; discomfort, perhaps, at the willingness for Stephen to so freely throw around a word with such connotations. “Sure, sure. As such, Stephen, I think we agreed you wouldn’t mind my endearments.”</p><p>“I seem to remember them as nicknames.”</p><p>“Endearment is its evolved form,” Tony said on the beat with all the headiness of a teenager. “Anyway. All’s fun until someone gets hurt.” His voice took on its serious burr, shoulders settling into a gentle slope. “I’m sorry, Stephen. If I’d have known—if you’d told me—Never mind. But, Stephen, from now on, I need to understand when I’m doing wrong. Please, for God’s sake, just tell me to <em>fuck off</em>.” His eyes shaded, and he inclined forwards. “And don’t-, don’t goad me like you did. I don’t have a strong restraint.”</p><p>
  <em>I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin you for anyone else.</em>
</p><p>“You’re impatient,” Stephen agreed, and rose from the couch to face him at height, to give grounding to their situation. He stood back, copying the lazy smile Tony had sported earlier in the evening. “I didn’t mean to goad you-” <em>Liar, liar, liar.</em> “I’m just-” <em>Playing</em>. “It’s one of the ways I work; I test people—I’m a doctor, who probably should have been a scientist. I like to understand the limits, and I like to do that through experimenting. It’s habit, sir.”</p><p>“Well, doc, I gotta be honest: probably a good habit to break.” Tony shoved one hand in his pocket, and the other ran up his face to scratch with his goatee. “Especially with me. I’ve never been good with limits.” He inhaled, eyes fluttering between open and closed. “Anyway, I should get going.”</p><p>Stephen hummed, acknowledging his clock – which was late by a full thirty minutes to keep him on his toes, making it even later. “I’ll hear from you soon, then, sir.”</p><p>Tony nodded, striding past Stephen to collect his keys. Through the frenzy of the evening, Stephen noted, Tony had removed his jacket and tie and left them precariously draped over one of the island’s chairs. He fetched them, pushing them into Tony’s warm, worked hands. They brushed, briefly, against Stephen’s slimmer, colder ones and he tried not to startle from the contact—while he was adverse to touch, it wasn’t usually quite so noticeable. The tension between them had dug into him obviously, despite his cool facade, and he relished having a few more days until he was due back at the hospital; plenty of time to desensitise himself again. Wonderful.</p><p>“Dinner was nice.” Stephen connected his hands in front of him.</p><p>“It was,” Tony agreed, correcting his cuffs. “Well... Thank you, Dr. Strange.”</p><p>“Thank you, sir,” Stephen replied, the slant of their conversation turning unnervingly formal as Tony took his leave. “Drive safely.”</p><p>“I always do.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Author story time: I told my pianist friend I was upping the rating of Piano Man, and his only comment was a strained, "Please, just not <em>on the piano</em> itself."</p><p>Stay safe !</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Respect</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“The sofa? God, no,” Tony replied, a laugh filtering through his sleep-laden accent. The obnoxious trill of it had slanted, gathered gently in the pauses and rests, and now it sounded closer to sighing breaths as he approached his limits for sleep. “You’re having the bed.”</p>
</blockquote>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you guys for sticking with me ! I hope you enjoy this chapter.</p><p>Warning for homophobia in the first part of this chapter. Take care of yourselves!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6></h6>
<p>When he was finally allowed back to work on Monday, Stephen found himself at a crossroads contemplating social graces and etiquette. Out of all his patients on his first day back, only one very old woman hadn’t enquired about the array of photos cropping up in the newspapers over the last few days.</p><p><em>Eleven Madison Park</em> had been a wonderful evening, despite its... challenges. What was less wonderful was the hangover he suffered the next day after going on to consume every bottle of alcohol in his apartment (which wasn’t much, but enough for the lightweight he’d become since his clubbing days). Tony called him to check-up and insisted they go out again that day for lunch—and the day after that for another dinner. The paparazzi became markedly more noticeable after their second fake-date in Central Park, and if Stephen thought assumptions about their relationship were awkward, being directly asked about it was far more so.</p><p>He thought he knew all about how it worked. He’d done interviews with journalists before; had sat on a panel with other respected medical experts on a debate show about the current state of the medical sector and the issue of accessing it. But nothing could prepare him for a few young reporters marching up to them while in line for coffee, demanding to know whether they were dating, how long they had been dating, and whether it was serious or not.</p><p>“He’s my piano man,” Tony briefly told them, with an unsubtle wink in the direction of the lens as he slipped his arm around Stephen’s waist and pulled him closer, planting a kiss on his jaw which he apologised for afterwards. Stephen only partially minded the absurdity of it all—after all, why were these people so interested in his and Tony’s relationship? Didn’t they have their own to think about? Maybe not. And it wasn’t like they wanted to ‘<em>know</em>’ about it, either; all they really seemed to care about was the sexuality of the matter.</p><p>The <em>homosexual aspect between them</em>, as one reporter so eloquently phrased it. It did seem to have upset a few journalists and newspapers who took it upon themselves to sprinkle their two to four page spreads with cringe-worthy innuendos, blatant homophobia and unsubtle wording like: <em>the female population mourns today the loss of Tony Stark, who’s apparently gone gay!</em></p><p>Was the exclamation mark really necessary?</p><p>“That’s tabloids for you,” Tony said the next day, a shrug in his tone, when they visited another restaurant Stephen didn’t care to learn the name of for the brief and fleeting fear of expense being spent on him and how on earth he’d pay it back. “It’ll go away in a few weeks.”</p><p>“I don’t understand what their problem is,” Stephen muttered over their shared platter, picking at a leaf. “It’s not like we’re hurting them. I thought all these sorts of issues were over.”</p><p>“Let me put it this way: If a giant wormhole opened up in the sky and lotsa aliens started descending on New York, would you be scared?”</p><p>Stephen looked at him, nonplussed. “Seems plausible... But I don’t see your point?”</p><p>“People are scared of shit they don’t understand,” Tony sighed, mouthing the edge of his glass. “They don’t like seeing stuff that, to them, isn’t meant to be—and the only way to change those peoples’ minds, is to continue being who you are and showing them you’re stronger than their prejudices.”</p><p>Although Stephen would maybe deny it later, that was the first time he felt real respect for Tony Stark, and not just this weird, bubbling ‘love’ emotion.</p>
<h6></h6><p>With the initial concept of ‘relationships’ solidifying in Stephen’s mind, now, he could begin to conduct his ‘research’ into how couples functioned. Everything suddenly became <em>fun</em> when he could dissect the way she looked at him, and he in turn looked over her shoulder at another, arguably prettier woman. And then there were the times he looked at her like she hung the moon, and she was definitely texting a hook-up—she wasn’t even being coy about it; Stephen could see the messages in the reflection of the window behind her.</p><p>For once, Stephen felt happily grounded in his sexuality. Heterosexual couples seemed rather unstable at his first attempts to grasp them. He sought out the stranger couples – straights included – who seemed happier in their skin and their relationship: that was the portrayal he needed, and he found it in the most unlikely of places. An old couple on a bench, feeding the birds seed; two young children playing together, and she helping him when he fell; a girl and a cat; a boy and a dog; an old woman and an owl. He particularly felt for the lesbian couple in the park who strode past mutterers and tutting with dejected looks in their eyes, and all because they were holding hands.</p><p>Stephen marvelled at their joined fingers, and secretly wondered what it would be like—to hold Tony’s hand. Would their palms feel different against each other? What about his fingers? Did they move? Would they clasp? How tightly would they hold on to Stephen’s? Were they warm, clammy, rough? He banished the thoughts after some time, forgetting himself, and instead acknowledged how intrusive he found the hand-holding concept; how suffocating it would be.</p><p>If there was one thing Stephen learnt about relationships during his most brief foray into researching them, was how different they all were, and yet how even the most innocent had the same thing in common with the most extreme: Love.</p><p>Goddammit.</p>
<h6></h6><p>Since becoming Tony’s <em>partner</em>, the media followed Stephen Strange practically everywhere. They found out who he was easily from his past appearances, and connected small dots and waywardly-taken photos to current events, focusing on one photograph in particular where Stephen was noted as having a ‘disarmed, dreamy stare’ apparently centred on Tony who was, admittedly, not in the photo itself. Although the memory was fuzzy, Stephen personally thought he’d probably been thinking about dinner—not about how he’d like <em>to take Tony from behind</em>.</p><p>
  <em>My God, who are these people?</em>
</p><p>The biggest issue from the increased media presence was the casual invasions of privacy: they discovered his workplace, they published photos of his apartment complex, they found his parents’ cottage in Cornwall, England, and, after much harassing, they found out his parents were dead. They even found out where he shopped. On the last point, Stephen also discovered something: retail workers were either absolute assholes or heaven-sent angels; from his recent experiences, there didn’t really seem to be an in-between.</p><p>But, thankfully, a lot of them were the latter and they managed to get him out of a lot of near-misses with the paps by sneaking him out through staff entrances and loading bays where from he could safely call for Happy Hogan to pick him up.</p><p>Work, while difficult, was not exactly a place journalists wanted to hang about—especially since Stephen had gone on-record as a supporter of free health care, so when they did stop him there it was all he tended to focus on. Unfortunately parking lots, bus stops and taxi ranks were a different story and were becoming a free-for-all, much like the trolley cage-ins at the store. With the recent uptake in interest, this meant Stephen wasn’t exactly allowed to walk and wander anywhere by himself for the moment—which was why he was privy to Happy’s delightful mutterings about the ‘vultures’ and the ‘vermin’ on a regular basis, as the bodyguard was formally instructed to drive Stephen to and from his apartment.</p><p>It led Stephen to wonder about his importance to Tony—was he really worth this much in time and money? It all seemed a great big bother – although, he couldn’t deny the nervous, hot excitement curling in the pit of his stomach every time Tony’s name lit up his phone.</p><p>Tony insisted on them calling nightly so he could check everything was all right. On one memorable occasion on Sunday, he even threatened legal action against the reporter banging on Stephen’s door. Thankfully, after that, not many hung about his building anymore. All of Stephen’s neighbours either pitied or hated him—the only one who didn’t, seemingly, was the kid who’d moved in next door with his socially-attractive aunt and charming uncle. Peter, as he was called, had come to Stephen’s door, a tiny slip of a thing in huge glasses, and asked whether he could meet Tony Stark—but his aunt had dragged him away before Stephen got more than a hello out. Despite his reservations about children, Stephen couldn’t help but think he was a... cute human boy child.</p><p>With the day of Tony’s party fast approaching – and the Expo very close – the last time Stephen had seen Tony was when he arrived at the apartment block to oversee the installation of the new security system. He’d dropped in on Stephen, they’d had coffee, discussed the party and Tony’s purchase of the clothes store in Manhattan, and then he’d left, thoughtless, with a peck to Stephen’s cheek.</p><p>That was... fine.</p><p>Except, it wasn’t.</p><p>Especially when Tuesday happened.</p><p>Stephen liked to think he was pretty damn capable. He wasn’t the sort of guy who’d walk down a dark alleyway alone, but he didn’t used to be afraid of the dark, or the streets or spiders or heights. It took a lot to really, physically scare him.</p><p>But coming home after an exhausting day at the hospital to find his door open? Well, that’s enough to scare anyone, especially since he definitely locked it and Tony’s security system meant this shouldn’t happen. May Parker, his neighbour, worked at the same hospital as him and got home earlier and, normally, she’d call him if there were any issues, but she, her husband Benjamin and their lil’ responsibility Peter were off in Boston for the week exploring the history of the American Revolution as part of Peter’s schooling, so she hadn’t been around to tell him someone had broken through Tony’s security system and into the building.</p><p>Stephen slowly stepped up to the doorway and leant around to see into his darkened apartment, making out his piano sitting solitary against the backdrop of the storm outside. It was possible the weather had knocked out the power, right? He shouldn’t-</p><p>Stephen tensed, hearing movement, and backed away when a gasp of a laugh caught on someone else’s snigger. Inhaling sharply, he turned around and walked slowly across to the door to the staircase. He slid through, using his key-card, and walked down them throwing several glances over his shoulder as he did. When he arrived in the unmanned reception, Stephen cast his eye across the security panels and, to his horror, examined some had been forcibly broken. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he slid through the gates, continued walking until he was standing outside, in the pouring rain, with nothing but his bag and the clothes on his back.</p><p>It took him a few minutes to remember his medical training, to rush through instinctive memories. He found shelter so he could make a call. Tony didn’t pick up – why wasn’t he picking up? He was about to try Pepper, having gotten her number for emergencies, but she was somewhere in Asia and had a call block on. Dammit. With numb, twitching fingers, he dialled Happy.</p><p>“<em>Hey, Strange. Everything OK?</em>”</p><p>Stephen’s voice shook as he answered, “I-I –I-” His teeth chattered, the freezing rain turning to sleet—damn freak summer storms.</p><p>Thankfully, Happy recognised there was something wrong. His voice grew louder in urgency. “<em>You at your building? I’m coming to get you.</em>” He paused, swore, and added, “<em>Hang on, OK? And stay safe. If something happens to you, the Boss’ll have my head.</em>” He hung up.</p><p>Stephen waited under the building’s overhang, water rushing down the pipe beside him and splattering against his legs. He sniffled, a chill working into his lungs. Thankfully, the black-windowed Audi arrived seven minutes and forty-two seconds later, squealing to a stop at the curb. Stephen shuffled through the sleety downpour and paused at the front window, sucking in his lips.</p><p>Happy rolled down the window, staring out and up into Stephen’s sallow face. “Oh, my God—Stephen – what the hell happened? You’re soaked-” He thumbed his door open, got out, opened the back door and practically shoved Stephen in by the shoulder. “Get the fuck in the car and tell me what happened—was it those reporters? Were they waiting in the lobby? Why were you outside?” Happy slid back into the front seat, shaking water droplets from his hands as he downed the divider between them.</p><p>Stephen opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn’t form words past, “My-my...”</p><p>Happy looked into the rearview mirror with highlighted concern in his round eyes, turning the heat on full blast and putting the car into drive. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Get as many of those wet clothes off as you can, OK? Did you grab- Know what? Tony’s got an extra pair of clothes in that compartment there—beneath your feet—you got it. Get those on, and warm the hell up—you drink coffee, right? I’ll grab you a coffee. Awh, shit – I better call the Boss and tell him we’re coming.”</p><p> </p><p>Twenty minutes and a change of clothes later, Stephen was warming his hands around a takeaway mug of steaming chocolaty coffee, inhaling the clouds of caffeine radiating out of glorious liquid. Happy drove through New York slowly, keeping to the living streets of Manhattan to avoid the worst of the storm-struck pipes and flash floods. It did mean they were going much slower than the driver particularly wanted, unfortunately, which lead to him banging the wheel repeatedly as he cussed out every other driver in his way.</p><p>Although Stephen would have been glad for the false privacy of the divider between them, Happy had insisted on keeping it down so they could talk without interference through the entirety of the drive—and talk, Stephen learnt, Happy could definitely do when he wanted to; they might have just been little comments about traffic and the weather, but they were constant and gave the car a pleasant thrum of conversation. He didn’t attempt to ask again about why Stephen was in the cold and wet and, frankly, Stephen was happy about that; he didn’t really feel up to talking about it just yet.</p><p>“And the weather—Oh, hey, just heard from the Boss,” Happy called, speeding up as the traffic cleared. “He’s finishing his meeting early and he’ll meet us at his temporary apartment, OK? It’s just up on the North Side. You good to wait in reception for him?”</p><p>Stephen swallowed and replied, “Yes.”</p><p>“Hey, you spoke,” Happy replied in his deadpan tone, driving around a Ferrari at what was probably too fast for mid-evening New York during bad weather. “How’s the coffee?”</p><p>Despite Happy’s flat way of speaking, Stephen could hear the relief in his voice. Raising one warm hand to massage his throat, the neurosurgeon managed to choke out, “It’s good.”</p><p>“That throat sounds bad,” Happy muttered, and Stephen thought he probably wasn’t meant to hear that. After another moment of silence, Happy picked up again, “Hey, look, I understand if, er, you’re not up to it, but think you can tell me why you look like you’d seen a ghost?”</p><p>“... No.”</p><p>Stephen met Happy’s narrowed eyes in the rearview mirror. The driver looked away, looked back, and then breathed out a, “OK. We’re just about at the apartment block—I’mma park up and get you in there, explain to the reception staff, and then I gotta hightail it over to the Stark Expo site for some last minute security stuff. That OK? The staff here’ll-”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Stephen interrupted, taking another long slurp of his coffee and sighing when it hit the dampness sitting in his throat. Happy parked up a few minutes later and walked Stephen inside, settling him in a corner where he could see the room. Happy gave a couple of words to the staff on duty before rushing out the door.</p><p>Stephen was quite content enough to sit on his lonesome and wait for Tony, his soaked-through backpack between his ankles with his plastic bag of wet clothes. Although Tony’s clothes were extremely tight on him, he was still thankful for their cover and their comforting, familiar smell—even after a wash, apparently, Tony’s clothes still smelled distinctly of him, and now that smell was in Stephen’s nose like it never had been before, and wrapped all around him, securing him, holding him together when he thought he’d sooner fall apart. How had this happened? How had he come to rely on someone else for comfort?</p><p>“Would you like another coffee, Dr. Strange?” asked a young woman who’d, presumably, been behind the desk. “I can get you a hot chocolate if you prefer?”</p><p>Stephen shook his head. He turned into the chair, ducking his nose against the tight jacket, and inhaled the distinctive smells of machinery, of warm metal, and of that very <em>Tony</em> comfort he couldn’t work out for the life of him. Despite every instinct telling him he should react nicer to the woman, to win trust; all he currently wanted was to be left alone—and that included not answering his phone. It vibrated dully from his pocket, nestled against his hip, but he continued to ignore it even after it called on and off at least twice.</p><p>Finally, it stopped. Two minutes later, the receptionist’s phone started up and, of course, Stephen couldn’t ignore that one.</p><p>“Good evening, Mr. Stark,” the male receptionist said calmly, but not before he’d muttered the tell-tale ‘oh god’ to the heavens. “Yes, he’s here. He arrived about ten minutes ago... I don’t think he’s in any position to accept a call, unfortunately... I... Yes... Yes...” Blowing out a long breath, giving his female co-worker a look, he said into the receiver, “Of course, Mr. Stark. We’ll do all we can... Sir...”</p><p>Stephen strained, but the male receptionist had begun speaking much, much quieter into the phone now, and Stephen, without getting up or making a scene, would have no hope of hearing exactly what was being said from the one-sided conversation. A few moments later he heard the phone being placed down and the male receptionist instructed something to his female colleague.</p><p>She approached Stephen again, her hands clasped in front of her modest breast, and spoke kindly, “Hello, Stephen. Can I sit here with you?”</p><p>Stephen blinked blearily at her, suddenly realising his sleeplessness was catching up to him all at once. He yawned into Tony’s jacket and sat up, wrinkling his cold nose with a sniffle. “Yes.” He tried to force his usual tone, but it came out just slightly tense.</p><p>She took a seat at his side, offering her hand but not moving to touch him. “Mr. Stark just called to check on you, because you weren’t answering your phone. He’ll be arriving in a few minutes.” She smiled faintly at him in his dishevelled state, the look of a mother in her eyes. “Is there anything we can do for you until he gets here? Would you like some water? Or a hot beverage? Maybe something to eat?”</p><p>Stephen, remaining blank, shook his head. “No, thank you,” he choked out, swallowing around the lump in his throat as his supermarket lunch threatened a reappearance from the stress of the evening. He couldn’t shake the feeling he really, really wanted her to leave. In this state, he was nothing; a total dependent without a dependency. He tried to explain that, to tell her in no uncertain terms she should leave him alone, but she stuck around, chatting, until the door at the other end of the building opened and in walked a hard breathing, slightly damp Tony Stark.</p><p>The male receptionist came around the counter and got about two-thirds into opening his mouth to speak, when Tony bypassed, brushed him off and asked bitingly into the air, “Where the hell is he?”</p><p>“Mr. Stark,” Sara, as Stephen had learnt her name by now, called out, standing up from her chair and gesturing to the neurosurgeon. “He’s just here, sir.”</p><p>“Oh, God—Stephen.” Tony skirted her, his approach immediate and fast like the storm outside had been. He paused a step or so away, his palms out. “Can you stand? Let’s get up to my apartment and give you something warm.”</p><p>“We offered him drinks, sir,” Sara interrupted, and Stephen could practically see the murder darkening Tony’s eyes. “We tried everything you asked, but he didn’t want anything to do with us.” The edge of bitterness, to Stephen’s ears, felt misplaced from the rest of her actions, but <em>c’est la vie</em>.</p><p>Tony turned on her, smiled, and spoke like you would to a spoiled, misbehaving child. “Well, that was then and now is now—plus, I ain’t offering him a choice.” He came up on Stephen’s side, bent down and said, “Can I touch you, Stephen?”</p><p>Stephen nodded slowly, taking in a deep breath. He felt one of Tony’s large, worked hands close around his shoulder, press into his muscles, and pull him to his feet. He briefly thanked the reception staff – but not really – and grabbed Stephen’s bags. “I thought I recognised those clothes,” muttered Tony, without his humour, as he pushed Stephen into the waiting elevator.</p><p>Once they were inside and travelling to the penthouse floor, Tony dropped the bags and turned Stephen around. He paused, looking him over, and then chose to take the step of bringing their bodies together in a clasping hug. “Hey, so,” Tony began, breathing into the side of Stephen’s sharp jaw. “This is... different. You gonna tell me what happened? Why Hap drove over and found you standing in the rain?”</p><p>Stephen dropped against Tony’s steady frame, leaning his head on to his shoulder. “I...” His eyes drooped, and his body flaked beneath him.</p><p>“Whoa! Whoa! OK, Ok—we’ll get to that. C’mon, this is my floor – let’s get you into bed, all right? Warm you up.” Tony took Stephen by the arm, managing to move both of them out into the hallway and towards the only door on the floor, pressing his thumb against a small keypad he’d very obviously installed himself.</p><p>“Good evening, Sir. Hello, Dr. Strange,” came the bodiless voice of JARVIS from the ceiling.</p><p>“Hey, JARVIS. Turn the heating up, will you? OK, Stephen – let’s go, let’s—Jesus, let’s get you out of those clothes before your blood circulation gets shot,” Tony muttered, dropping the bags on the floor – they’d definitely make a small wet patch on the carpet, but neither man cared at that moment. He began to practically drag Stephen across to another doorway, taking them through to a bedroom. “Mi casa is su casa,” Tony briefly muttered for something to say, though it was obvious his concern was definitely for the doctor’s health before his smart-alecky this and that.</p><p>Stephen could nearly laugh at the thought—Here he was: a neurosurgeon; a doctor. He shouldn’t be in this mess. He should have done a lot of things—should have remembered some training or something of the like—but running outside to stand in the pouring rain to call for help (except he never did say ‘help’), and to then continue standing there getting soaked to the bone while waiting for Happy to arrive was not what he should have done.</p><p>Tony got him to the bed and sat him down, immediately beginning to undress him by way of the jacket first and foremost, before moving on to tug at the borrowed tee-shirt beneath. Stephen froze at the brush of Tony’s fingers on his bare skin and clamped his arms to his sides, turning panicked eyes upwards to stare into Tony’s. “I- No—No, I-I-I...” Stephen shivered, grown cold from the dread of exposure, and bit his lip.</p><p>“Stephen, honey, relax – I’m not gonna do anything, OK? I gotta get you out of those clothes, though; they’re way too small for you.”</p><p>“No—you-you, no-”</p><p>“Stephen,” Tony shushed, hands on his shoulders even as Stephen batted him away. “Hey, hey – calm down. <em>Calm down</em>. I’m not going to hurt you, honey; I really—I don’t wanna do that, all right? I know something’s wrong, but you aren’t gonna tell me tonight and you gotta sleep.” Tony’s searching eyes, light brown and with a concern unpronounced in the man, he said, “You look like shit, Stephen.”</p><p>Stephen let out a ragged breath from a bitten throat and tried to get up, only to swoon and slip back on to the covers with a pressing cough. He shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Tony’s rough fingers settle gently against his elbows. “Let me help you.” Stephen heard against the cusp of his ear, feeling the other man’s hands move down, land on his stomach, and curl at the hem of the tee-shirt. “Please, Stephen.”</p><p>Stephen dropped his arms and gave a faint, feared nod.</p><p>“If it gets too much, say—I dunnno. Say... ‘spaceman’, all right?”</p><p>“OK,” Stephen replied, digging his nails into the sheets.</p><p>As Tony peeled the tee-shirt away, Stephen briefly managed to blurt out a couple of words, “I got home.” This caught Tony’s attention and he paused in undressing Stephen, turning to look at him with a slightly dead expression for the world at large, but eyes full of curious, if slightly tainted, blackened arousal for their situation. “My door – was open,” Stephen coughed, clearing his throat. “There was—there was someone in my-”</p><p>“In your apartment?” Tony finished quickly, slipping Stephen’s borrowed shirt off to dump on the floor beside the bed. Holding up a finger to pause their conversation, Tony lifted himself away and fetched another blanket, carefully unravelling it over Stephen to both warm him and protect his modesty.</p><p>“Yes,” Stephen replied, working his hands beneath the cover to remove the tight-ass jeans, pushing them down his legs and correcting the extra layer to cover himself entirely. He settled into the idea of removing his underwear later, once he’d recovered some strength. “It was—all dark, and I just- I couldn’t- I had to leave.” He turned his head, looked at the indentation of anger in Tony’s eyes, and slipped beneath consciousness.</p><p> </p><p>When he came to, maybe an hour later, through the haze of his vision and the slightest itch slowly consuming his throat, he watched Tony pace back and forth in front of his window, where the rain had slowed up and was falling gentler now in the kind of way rain fell in movies.</p><p>The inventor was speaking, low and fast, into his cell phone, and Stephen managed to overhear: “I dunno, Pep. He’s pretty shook up... Oh, I have no doubt he’ll have caught something; the idiot.... I’ve asked Hap to pick up some medicine and vitamin C.” Tony paused in his walking and turned to the bed. Stephen didn’t bother at playing as if he were asleep, knowing it would never fool Tony, but stared with his reduced eyesight at the older man’s figure illuminated by the hot lights of the apartment. Tony continued to speak, “He got himself soaked and cold... I’m not gonna shower him; he’ll do it himself later... He’s asleep right now.”</p><p>Stephen smiled at the easy lie.</p><p>“Yeah, no, that’s not happening, Pep... I don’t care; I gotta be here right now.” Tony started up his pacing again. “Can you get it postponed until – I dunno – Thursday? I know that’s right before the party, and the Expo... I know... Yeah...” He visibly rolled his eyes, and then stopped, looked at Stephen, and brought the phone close to his face. “Look, I gotta check on him, Pep. Can I call you back? ... Yeah, I have no idea—I’ve got some of my guys over there, now, and they’re checking the whole place out... I can’t say, Pep. No. No—don’t use that ton—I said it first!”</p><p>Stephen snorted, stretching out his naked legs.</p><p>“Yeah, fine,” Tony sighed, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, walking across to sit on the edge of the bed—near to Stephen, but also not; the distance was marginal, but he felt his heightened pulse level out. “O-K. I’m gonna head down there myself in the morning—Well, that’s obvious, Pepper...” Tony curled his fingers in the duvet under him and didn’t dare look at Stephen when he dangerously said in a clear, precise voice, “He’s not going back there.”</p><p>Stephen blinked several times, putting together the conversation from just the one side he was privy to, and the muffling from the other. Not going back? Was Tony saying he couldn’t return home? What did that mean? Did he need to find another place to live? He couldn’t afford that, not yet—once he got his parents’ house sold, sure, but the housing market in Britain wasn’t exactly amazing, especially for rural properties right now... Oh, God—he couldn’t house-share. For one, it was a security risk, and for another—well, if university had taught him anything besides his entire degree, it was he was not exactly a very good housemate.</p><p>“Don’t worry, Pepper—Yeah. OK—OK, enjoy Hong Kong and we’ll see you Thursday. Bye.” Tony downed his phone, stared at it, and then chucked it across the room. He turned immediately to Stephen, breathing out a little harsher than normal, with a hand to his chest—to his arc reactor.</p><p>“Are you OK?” Stephen asked, surveying the flat expression on the other man’s face.</p><p>Tony swallowed and smiled. “I think that’s my line.” He slicked back his hair, and then pressed his hand into the soft bed beneath them both. “Did I wake you?”</p><p>Stephen shrugged, sitting up. “I’m not exactly sleeping well at the moment, Mr. Stark.”</p><p>A smile lit up Tony’s expression, his eyes partially closed. “Stephen... I really think it’s time you start calling me Tony—I mean, c’mon, you’re in my bedroom.”</p><p>“I am?” Stephen asked, breaking into a cough from the nudge of the words against his throat. He slid back on to his elbows, felt Tony’s hand on his shoulder, heard gentle words being said but all he could focus on was coughing, and breathing, and attempting to swallow. The pressure of Tony’s hand dug into him, shallow, gentle, causing an itch Stephen hadn’t any hope of scratching—even if he knew exactly where the itch was. Reaching it would be too much of a task in his current state.</p><p>“Hey, relax,” Tony commanded, voice dripping with quiet, enthralling confidence. His fingers worked over Stephen’s muscles, over bare skin, dappling his movements like he was playing the right-hand of a sonnet, while his left twisted in the fabric beside Stephen’s hand. “You’ve gotta rest up; get yourself better, all right?”</p><p>“I have work- tomorrow,” Stephen said, wheezing through a heavy breath. “I have- surgery—Mr. Kapoor-”</p><p>“Nuh-uh. Nope—not happening,” Tony replied, a dead-beat of silence sitting damply in his tone. He added, “I’ll call Doctor Palm Oil and tell her to get someone else in—d’you have her number? Or the hospital’s number?”</p><p>Stephen swallowed, the sound sitting in his throat like crunched gravel beneath his feet—the imagery took him immediately back to boarding school, to walking up the path from the car with his heavy bags, and he involuntarily shivered at the thought. Almost at once, Tony drew his hands away. “Stephen- Jesus Christ, Stephen; you’re shaking.” Tony drew further away, the interest in his eyes rebuked. “Look, I know you’re a workaholic, but you can’t go back right now, OK?”</p><p>Of course Stephen knew that, and he knew why: It was for the same reason he’d held on to it so tightly—security. He loved his job; loved his work; enjoyed how it made him feel accomplished and <em>right</em>, because he knew something—he knew how to cure people, how to fix them, how to put them back together and save their lives.</p><p>But now, after tonight, the sad realisation hit him: his life as he knew it was over.</p><p>It had been over for quite a while, since he’d signed his name on that dotted line, really—Tony promised his reputation would be fine, but hadn’t thought to mention it would be fine because there’d be nothing to ruin it per say. It was regrettable, how Stephen had tried to live a normal life as the spotlight turned on him—hot and pressing, as the media worked their way through his friends, his colleagues, his professors. Stephen Strange was headline news not for his medical achievements, but for the man beside him.</p><p>And look where it had gotten him—this troubling relationship; this revealing intrusion into his life by persons unknown.</p><p>Stephen turned hazed eyes to Tony and saw the magnified horror in them. Was he thinking of it? Of his apartment? What could have happened had Stephen thrown caution to the wind and turned on his light? Had it been a reporter? A journalist? Or someone with more criminal leaning intentions?</p><p>Had it been more than one person?</p><p>Stephen breathed out through his nose, angling his head away from Tony so as not to breathe on him. He dragged his hands down, pulled the duvet around him, hid from the tense body at his side. “I’m fine,” Stephen muttered, shaking his head. “I- I need to- to go back.”</p><p>“To your apartment?” Tony asked, disbelief settling into his voice. “Uh... Yeah. No. That’s... That’s not happening, Stephen.” He sat back, distancing himself like a cat from its fresh-kill. “My guys are over there right now-” He tossed a glance towards his thrown phone, slipping off the bed to retrieve it. “And I’m heading over there in the morning.”</p><p>“But I can’t?” Stephen replied, indigent, as he watched Tony dally between returning to the bed and settling on the loveseat across the room. With a note of something Stephen wasn’t sure how to describe – something painful, something a little aching – he noted the bunched covers at the end of the plush sofa, ready to be unfurled and slept beneath.</p><p>Tony hummed, his focus on his phone, and Stephen curled his hands in the covers as he sat up and narrowed a glare towards it, put-off by how that little box managed to steal Tony’s attention whenever they got near to the closest thing to honest Stephen thought Tony Stark was capable of with his partners; real or fake. Bunching the covers around him, Stephen asked, “Should I move to the sofa?”</p><p>“The sofa? God, no,” Tony replied, a laugh filtering through his sleep-laden accent. The obnoxious trill of it had slanted, gathered gently in the pauses and rests, and now it sounded closer to sighing breaths as he approached his limits for sleep. “You’re having the bed.”</p><p>“I can’t take your bed,” Stephen said, finally drawing Tony’s attention—and it was adequate, the way his eyes clouded over with quiet disbelief, with sudden, almost unnerved panic. The ever-present hunger for something had dwelled into the corners of his eyes, and Stephen briefly considered invoking it—what exactly would happen if he did, if he tried, if he- God. Not again; he couldn’t do that again. He was surely exhausted if he’d begun thinking like this. “I’ve slept on sofas before.”</p><p>“Sofa-surfer, were you?” Tony said, only half in jest, his expression drained of anything inherently funny—as if he was testing everything Stephen said to the fates of truth, consistently bewildering him over what might be right or wrong.</p><p>Stephen hated to disappoint. “During the best times,” he relented, managing somehow to place his feet on the carpet. The floor underfoot was warm and soothing, sending heat through him. “My worst was sleeping under an overpass in winter, and I bunked up in a drug den a couple of times during my last year of Med in England.” He chose not to look at the billionaire, unsure of what he’d see, unsure of what he wanted to see. “So, I can manage.”</p><p>The silence following his dalliances into his private life was, at best, threateningly nervous and somewhat cold. At worst, it was saying everything Stephen knew about himself as true: he was <em>disgusting, a social failure, a nervous wreck</em>.</p><p>A <em>mess</em>.</p><p>And yet, somehow, he’d gotten through it; he’d come back to America, settled into life at a top university to finish out his year and become a someone—just as he’d always wanted: A man like him, with a scientist’s brain for tests and trials, becoming a doctor. Astonishing.</p><p>“What if,” came Tony’s low rumble, and his steps across the soft carpets were painstakingly quiet—but each one dented Stephen’s head a little more. “What if I don’t want you to manage?” he asked, stopping beside the bed, his hand outstretched.</p><p>Stephen looked up into his eyes, his dark eyes. His head hammered, his heart shuddered into his throat, and yet all he could do was stare between the fingers of Tony’s hand, following the length of his arm right up to his face, to his eyes, to the sedated passion for life and its nuances there in the depths of himself, in the fraying paths of his soul beneath the surface of his freckled-over, California-tanned skin.</p><p>“Stephen. What if I don’t want you to manage?”</p><p>“What else can I do?” Stephen asked, forward, as he sat back against the bed. “I can’t- Stark. What are you going to do—after all this is over? What am I going to do?”</p><p>Tony muttered something, something draining and drab, as he dropped his hand. “As I think I’ve mentioned, Stephen—I like having friends in places, and those friends have to be comfortable.” He stepped back, shredding the connection between them with distance. “So, I’m going to make sure you’re comfortable.” Walking around the bed, Tony pulled back the duvet proper and gestured towards it. “C’mon – get in.”</p><p>“But...” Stephen bit down, hard, on his lip, sucking the beginnings of pain festering beneath the soft skin of his mouth. He swallowed, throat raw from the chill rain, and said, “It’s your bed.”</p><p>“No shit, Sherlock.”</p><p>Stephen chastened him with a deliberate glare, evaluating the distance Tony had put between them before placing his feet on the floor again. He stood up, head heavy with fatigue, and slowly walked himself around the bed, shifting and moving the fabric of his current cloak to wrap around and protect his quaint modesty. He stared at the inviting mattress, and then turned to look over his shoulder at where Tony had taken residence on the loveseat. “Can I-” he started, stiffening. “Could I... borrow some clean underwear?”</p><p>“As opposed to not clean underwear?” Tony asked, although the humour – should there have been any – fell flat between them. A wall, guarded and manned, had risen between them tonight for some unbidden reasoning, and Tony seemed ever-so-careful as he walked his way towards the drawers, opening them to paw through his laundered clothes. From a small box, he removed some underwear and chucked it across the room. “If you gotta use the bathroom it’s an en-suite, all right? That door over yonder.”</p><p>Raising his head, Stephen located the door across the room. “Thank you.”</p><p>“You can use my shampoo,” Tony continued speaking, as he made up his own bed—it was a dower attempt, and the pillow kept falling off the armrest. “We’ll get you some tomorrow.”</p><p>“Me?” Stephen asked, his eyes slipping closed, as he wrangled with pulling on the underwear while still cocooned in the extra duvet. He relented a few moments later, deciding instead he’d use the bathroom.</p><p>“Yep,” Tony muttered, still fiddling with his makeshift sleeping arrangements. “We’re roommates until I can get something sorted for you.”</p><p>“You don’t-”</p><p>“I do,” Tony replied, as he finally had enough with the pillow and shoved it on top of the covers, opting probably to ram it beneath his head once he got under the duvet. “It’s my fault this happened, and I’ll fix it. Just not this week—got the party, the Expo...” He paused. “I gotta head back to Cali after the Expo opens.”</p><p>With all said and Tony looking rather done, Stephen retreated to the bathroom where he quickly disposed of wearing the duvet. Standing naked in a bathroom that wasn’t his was an experience. He pulled on the underwear, did his business, and found a tube of toothpaste. Hoping Tony wasn’t one of those people who licked the opening, he spurted a bit on to his finger and rubbed his teeth, closing his eyes at the subtle burst of pain from his gums.</p><p>Looking in the mirror, Stephen let out a short groan and ran a hand down his face. He didn’t remember having ever looked as bad as this, even when he was getting shit-faced regularly in some weird combination of rebellion and coping method.</p><p>Pausing to stare himself in the eyes, Stephen shook his head and returned to the now-dark bedroom. It startled him, as he dumped the extra cover at the end of the bed and made his way around, pulling himself under the covers and turning on to his other side. In the dripping silence of the weather, Stephen listened hard for the sound of Tony breathing and, hearing the slow breaths indicating sleep, he shut his eyes and hoped for peace.</p><p>It was, admittedly, the best sleep he’d gotten in months. It still wasn’t all that good, though.</p>
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